


The Only One Who Could Ever Reach Me

by hannanotmontana



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Credence is 22, Fluff, Graves is 36, How They Met, M/M, aftermath of Grindelwald, no one is dead BECAUSE THESE MEN ARE MY PRECIOUS BABIES, reference to the abuse in the movie, violence as in the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8921740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannanotmontana/pseuds/hannanotmontana
Summary: Credence and Graves meet almost a year before Grindelwald takes over. This is how they meet, and how Graves learns the son of a preacher woman is much more than a boy beaten into submission. Credence learns the Graves, in a world full of magic, is the most wonderous thing he can ever find.





	1. We'd go walkin'

**Author's Note:**

> Title reference is to "Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield.  
> This is pre- and post-Grindelwald. I just need a healthy relationship for those boys.  
> My tumblr is hanna-notmontana, come find me and be Gravebone trash with me.

**January**

His fingers are numb, but Credence doesn’t mind. In a way it’s an almost familiar comfort, the numbness. Of course the word ‘comfort’ is used in a broad sense here. It’s not comfortable per se, but the numbing, freezing water means that Credence doesn’t feel his hands anymore and after a beating that’s more then he can ask for.

Of course after a while a freezing burn settles in, thousands of needles piercing his skin. But those blissful minutes in between, the numbness, Credence cherishes.

He takes his time doing the dishes, dreading the task of the day. Ma told him to hand out flyers in front of the Woolworth Building today, which is even more arduous than doing it anywhere else in the city. They don’t do it often, the suit-clad, busy New Yorkers take offense in him and his rag-tag bundle of children when they stand outside the enormous building for too long. They don’t belong there, even less so than they belong anywhere else.

Credence finishes the last plate before long, because while he dreads the Woolworth duty he dreads being accused of tardiness even more. That always leads to punishment.

He leaves, not bothering with a coat because he has none, leaflets tucked securely under his arm. Within minutes, the chill of an early January morning bites at his skin, the hands that are still tingling from the icy water start to bleed when his knuckles crack open. Credence pays them no mind, walks tensely, never looks up.

He’s always tense, always in pain and always cold. It’s familiar. He tries to be comforted by it.

oOo

Someone takes a leaflet from his hands and he mutters “thank you.”

“You should be wearing gloves, boy,” the man says and Credence risks a look at his fingers, which have turned light blue at some point early in the last five hours.

“I’m alright, sir.”

The man grunts noncommittal and Credence expects him to walk away.

He doesn’t; instead, he studies the leaflet – Credence’s vision, with his head hung low, reaches up to the man’s chest where two glove-clad hands hold the thin paper. “ _Witches live among us.”_

Credence can’t tell if it’s a question or not. Carefully, he says: “There are meeting at our chapel you can join if you‘d like to find out more. The address is at the bottom.” In an afterthought, he adds: “We’re not hard to find.” It’s the most he’s spoken in days.

“Mh,” makes the man, perhaps an acknowledgment. Then he carefully folds the paper and Credence almost looks up in surprise, because usually when – no, _if_ people keep the leaflets, they just stuff them into whatever pocket has room. The man handles it as if it’s important. Worth being treated with respect, despite the vile content. Then he starts rifling through a pocket in his long, monochrome coat. Credence hears the distinct tinkle of coins before the man pulls out his hand with a triumphant “aha!”, holding it out for Credence to see. There are roughly ten dollars in coins and it’s more money than Credence has ever possessed.

“That should be enough for a pair of gloves,” the man says, and despite his calm, steady voice, Credence thinks he sounds a bit uncertain, as if he’s not actually sure exactly how much money he has.

Maybe he’s a foreigner.

But then again, Credence isn’t quite sure how much ten dollars are, or if he could buy a pair of gloves with it. Most of the stuff at home either comes from charity or is delivered and signed for by Ma. None of the kids and neither Chastity nor he, at 22, are allowed to handle the coffers.

“There’s no… need, sir,” Credence finally manages to say, feeling his cheeks heat up with shame and also… because someone has turned their attention on him and it’s for a friendly reason.

“There’s plenty of need!” The man replies resolutely and reaches out for Credence’s hand, possibly to use his frozen, blue digits as ‘Exhibit A’. However, Credence yanks back his hand instinctively and half-swallows a startled whimper, instantly berating himself for the reaction.

“I see…” the man mutters, and as hard as Credence looks for it, he simply can’t find any of the condescending pity other people use on him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” the stranger promises then and without waiting for an answer strides away, leaving a stunned Credence behind.

Every fibre in him yearns to walk away because that man is confident, intimidating and Credence simply doesn’t know how to stand up to him – but a very small part also thinks that maybe, there’s no reason to do so in the first place. Sure, the man has an air of discipline, but more like he’s used to people listening to him because he’s right, not because he enforces it with a belt. And he’s the first passer-by to actually talk to Credence all day, or rather all week. Not to call him a freak, or worth less than the dirt under someone’s finger nails.

No, to show compassion.

So Credence stays, half because he wants to see the man again, half because he still has a lot of leaflets and can’t return home unless he hands them out first.

And then the stranger is back, holding out a pair of simple, black gloves for Credence to take. They’re cloth, not leather, nowhere near as expensive as the ones the man is wearing, but they look incredibly warm.

“Take them, please.”

“I-I couldn’t, sir” Credence stutters, feeling the colour return to his cheeks.

“Percival Graves,” the man supplies, and while Credence still marvels at the uncommon ring of that name, the man – Mr. Graves – places the pair of gloves on the stack of leaflets Credence is holding. “And I insist. Do me a favour and don’t freeze to death.”

And while Credence still thinks of something to say, still tries to decline, still tries to come up with a reason why he can’t accept this gift, Mr. Graves walks away. Credence even turns his head to maybe spot the man in the crowd, but can’t make him out, and then thinks that if all Mr. Graves asks in return is that he wears the pair of gloves today, he’ll do it for him.

oOo

Of course Mary Lou enquires about the gloves the instant she spots them, but Credence tells her he found them in front of the Woolworth Building and miraculously, she believes him. It’s the first time he lies to his foster mother without any intention of admitting to it, ever. And anyway, it’s not a complete lie. He did get the gloves where he said he got them. He just doesn’t mention Percival Graves.

Credence gives the pair of gloves to Modesty that night, after he notices how rough the backs of her hands look. His own hands are corrupted, broken and numb anyway, the gloves would be wasted on him. He’s perfectly content with something infinitely more precious – the kindness of a stranger, with a most curious name.

The kindness of Percival Graves.

oOo

Percival fires two more stunning spells, and the group of wizards taking cover across the street behind some upturned No-Maj vehicles cackle when the spells fly over their heads without harming them.

“Sir, we can circle around, have Goldstein and Roscoe sneak up from behind that building over there-“ one of his Aurors pants, gripping his wand tightly. His face is pale and there’s sweat on his brow from the on-going duel.

Percival’s Aurors have been fighting a group of wizard extremists for the better part of the last hour in the outskirts of the city and he finally joined the fray after a late-night meeting with President Picquery. It doesn’t look to good for the MACUSA wizards so far, but Percival isn’t worried.

“We stay where we are,” he orders calmly.

“But, sir-“

Percival puts a finger to his lips, before pointing across the street to the enemy. Whatever the young Auror wants to say remains unsaid and Percival smiles grimly when his two stunning spells that ‘missed’ before do exactly what he wanted them to do. Half of the roof of the building behind the extremists has set into motion quietly thanks to a silently cast Muffling Charm from Percival – and even though a few of them realize the threat, Percival easily wipes out the weak protective charms they try to cast.

He casts his own charm over the group, seconds before they’re being squashed like ants and although all of them will be bruised, hurt and possibly retain a couple of broken bones, they’ll be alive for questioning.

“Have five Aurors transport them to the cells via side-along apparition, take Roscoe and obliviate the No-Majs in the area and make the necessary repairs. Goldstein is in charge. I expect a report on my desk tomorrow morning.” Percival waits for a short moment in case something is unclear, but when the Auror nods with a serious expression, he turns on his heel and disapparates.

There’s a reason for why he, at 36, has held the position of Director of Magical Security and heading the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for almost six years now, and it’s not just because his famous ancestry. True, he’s powerful, but he’s not alone in that respect. One of his Aurors, the elder of the Goldstein siblings, has great potential, too. Madame President Picquery is incredibly talented, as well. But he thinks out of the box, and it sets him apart from the rest.

Of course there is a point with rules regarding the secrecy of the magical community, and even office bureaucracy has its advantages. But when it comes to field work he sees more than one approach. It makes him unpredictable – and therefore dangerous.

Percival, content with the day’s work, pours himself a whiskey (the prohibition hasn’t influenced the wizarding world too much and magical speakeasies are easier to find than a decent tailor) and stands at the balcony doors of his flat, resting his head against the cool glass for a moment while watching the stars. He can see them rarely enough, living in the middle of a big city like New York. His thoughts drift from work towards earlier that day, when he left the office to get a late lunch and noticed _him_. The boy with the hands as cold as the glass Percival is leaning against.

It was curiosity that drove Percival to the lonely figure in the middle of the sidewalk, initially. Contrary to what Goldstein believes, he does listen to her when she rants on and on about the Second Salemers. True, they’re not posing a threat at the moment, but Percival is not blue-eyed enough to believe that couldn’t change.

The boy – young man, really – handing out the leaflets doesn’t exactly look dangerous to a wizard per se, but then again, neither did Crups to No-Majs and Merlin’s Beard, everyone knew how problematic _that_ was. But then Percival had been standing before him and even through the leather gloves he could feel an immense surge of energy when he had come in contact with the boy’s hand for the shortest of moments when taking a leaflet. He was _extraordinary_.

And clearly, obviously horribly neglected.

oOo

When he finds the boy the next time, a week later, it’s still freezing. He’s not wearing the gloves.

He’s keeping his head down, eyes trained somewhere on the pavement, as he always seems to do. Nobody takes notice of him, or the leaflets. Or the greyish blue hue to his skin.

Percival thinks about reaching out and touching him to get his attention, but seeing how he flinched back at their first meeting, it doesn’t seem like a good idea. Instead he walks up until he stands right in front of him, his shoes definitely in the boy’s line of sight, and lets his presence alone catch the Second Salemer’s attention.

“Mister… Graves?”

The wizard almost smiles when the boy slowly raises his head in surprise, but stops at some point around Percival’s chin, still not quite meeting his eyes.

“Good afternoon.” Percival indicates the smallest of smiles, hoping the Salemer catches it. He can’t be too sure. “You really ought to wear gloves.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the boy immediately stutters and Percival notices a very faint blush rising to his cheeks. It’s a tiny splotch of colour in his frozen, wind-whipped features and suits him extraordinarily well. “I’m- I’m grateful, really. No one ever- I mean, thank you. Thank you.”

Percival berates himself inwardly for not realizing how accusatory even his gently berating statement must’ve sound to the ears of someone clearly as mistreated as the boy in front of him. His sentences are around ninety percent apologies, his demeanour as submissive as possible.

“Apologies if that sounded like an accusation,” the Auror gently clarifies. “I’m merely worried. It wasn’t my intention to cause you any trouble.”

The implication is clear, Percival sees that the boy understands him from the way he first tenses and then explains: “The gloves were beautiful, sir – I just… gave them to my sister. She’s eight.”

“I see.” So the boy is not the only one with cold hands. Percival wonders how many children like him there are within the Second Salemers. Then he thinks that there really can’t be a second person like him anywhere. Not beaten into submission, yet filled to the brim with kindness and raw power he doesn’t even seem to realize he possesses. Squib, probably. Can’t tap into it.

“Sir?” the young man interrupts his musings. “Will you, um, consider coming to one of our meetings?” And he glances up into Percival’s eyes for a split-second, his brown eyes sad, scared – but with a spark of hope in them. Then he trains them firmly on Percival’s chest again.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon – I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked for your name before?”

The boy hurries to answer, his voice giving away his happiness at Percival’s confirmation-of-sorts, although he’s still quiet and won’t look up again. “It’s Credence, Sir. Credence Barebone.”

oOo

Percival doesn’t find the time to attend a meeting of the Second Salemer’s in their run-down little hob on Pike Street, his position in the ministry keeps him busy all January and well into February. As trigger-happy as many of the No-Majs in America are, as wand-happy are many of the wizards and witches.

He does, however, send one of his brightest young Aurors to investigate, and his face grows darker with every single report Porpentina Goldstein delivers.

oOo

**February**

Credence feels him before the monochrome coat sways into his field of vision. He has a _presence_ , there’s no other word out there to explain Percival Graves. Whatever field he’s working in, Credence is absolutely certain that people grow quiet when Mr. Graves enters a room, that he never has to raise his voice to be heard, and that people follow his orders without question because he is someone who is completely certain of the rightfulness and justification of everything he says and does.

“Hello, Credence,” Mr. Graves greets him and Credence can’t help but feel surprised that someone like the man in front of him would remember his name. Then again, the much bigger surprise is how he came back not once, but twice now. Credence doesn’t know what to make of that.

He’s certainly not worth noticing, no-one ever does except for Ma, and she only notices the things he does wrong. He tries not to anger her, but it’s so difficult to do her bidding – she expects so much and he can’t live up to that, no matter how hard he tries.

The day he invited Mr. Graves to their meetings, hopeful that he would show up, and Ma would see that Credence’s hard work bore fruits, he was so certain that he’d done something right. If he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t really see someone like Mr. Graves attending a meeting at the church. He seemed too… good, too sure, too _much_ for the likes of them. And yet Credence had hoped to see him.

He hadn’t shown up.

Obviously he hadn’t. It was foolish to think that he would.

When Credence went to bed the night after the first meeting Mr. Graves hadn’t attended, the perpetual knot in his stomach grew even tighter and he sat awake on his bed all night, hands balled up in tight fists, the thread-bare blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak and stared into a patch of cold moonlight on the floor, willing down tears of disappoint that threatened to spill from his eyes. It was ridiculous. Foolish. But Credence had had a glimmer of hope. And it fizzled out in the cold, harsh drench of reality.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves asks and Credence berates himself for getting lost in dark thoughts and not replying.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. Hello,” he says, eyes trained firmly on the man’s chest. Mr. Graves is wearing layers against the cold, too, but unlike Credence’s his match, look tailored and actually seem to keep him warm.

Mr. Graves shifts his weight. “Is everything alright?”

No, Credence wants to say. Yes, Credence needs to say. He says nothing instead, just grips the leaflets tighter, not knowing how to tell someone he’s met two times that these two occasions easily make it into the top three of his most pleasant memories. And that him not following the invitation had hurt so much, but realizing how stupid it had been to be hopeful had hurt even more.

Then the other man says the impossible. “Would you care to join me for lunch? I know it’s afternoon already, but I assume you’ve been standing here all day.”

Panic wells up in Credence, because here stands this man, a virtual stranger, who has shown more kindness to Credence than anyone else in his life, who builds up hopes with words easily, and destroys them even more easily. Credence couldn’t accept this invitation for so many reasons. If Ma finds out he left his post, there will definitely be a beating. And there’s also the fact he doesn’t have money, and even if he did, he couldn’t spend it on something trivial as lunch. Mr. Graves probably doesn’t think of a seedy, cheap restaurant either. He looks like a person that eats at places where even the underpaid waiters spit on the likes of Credence and his family.

But what scares, no, panics Credence the most is how easily he wants to say ‘yes’. His desperation to spend time with Mr. Graves almost, _almost_ outweighs all the things keeping him back. But only almost. So he settles on the safest thing to say: “I- I couldn’t, sir. I have to hand these out. Ma would- I couldn’t.”

And Credence can _feel_ the confidence of a triumph pour off of Mr. Graves, when the older man says: “Actually, I meant to ask if I could take all of those for my co-workers. That should give you a little time.”

He holds out his hand, gloveless like Credence’s but much warmer and less boney by far. Not once in his life has someone held out a hand for him like that. It’s an invitation, a promise of something good. Credence knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t fall for it. He remembers vividly how much it had hurt to have a glimmer of hope destroyed. But he can’t deny this for himself. Not this singular chance of a short-while happiness.

So he carefully places the leaflets in Mr. Graves’ outstretched hand, who equally carefully puts them inside his coat before explaining: “We won’t go far, I know a place just around the corner. I promise to have you back here before too long.” And then he lightly places one hand on Credence’s back – and Credence only flinches a tiny bit, he’s too tense to react much – and leads him away.

X

The café is empty save for a woman behind the counter of the bar who will pay them no mind unless Percival waves her over. It’s a nice enough place, no fancy but with comfortable leather chairs and a fireplace in a corner. He knew the place when it was still an establishment run by wizards and now that it’s No-Maj-owned he comes in here once a week to make sure no residual magic interferes with the place’s business. Also, the sandwiches are really rather good.

He leads Credence over to the fireplace and the boy sits down stiffly, looking like he’s not quite sure how to relax in a comfortable chair. Or ever, really. Considering Tina’s reports, Percival isn’t surprised.

Percival pretends not to notice how Credence leans closer to the fire with a small sigh and instead slides over a menu. The young man makes no move to pick it up.

Before he can claim something ridiculous like he’s not hungry, Percival tells him conversationally: “The sandwiches are really good. I come here quite often, they always put extra food on the plate. We can share if you don’t mind ham.”

He half expects Credence to try and come up with an excuse again, but finally the boy just shakes his head and steals glances at his surroundings, clearly out of his comfort zone – wherever that zone might be. Percival leaves him to his observations while he gets up to order food and tea for the frozen boy, then shrugs out of his coat and sits down, crossing his legs with a content sigh.

“I enjoy the quiet in here,” he says lightly. “Work is ridiculous today - Valentine’s Day. Reduces grown men into giggling schoolboys.”

Credence makes wide eyes. “You celebrate – at your work?”

Percival chuckles. “Not me, no, but most of the younger staff. They write each other notes and pass on chocolates, that sort of thing.”

In reality, of course it’s a lot more magical than that – literally. The MACUSA is going wild with paper doves that deliver love poems and have mostly replaced the notification mice. The early morning hours were especially troublesome because someone forgot to bewitch the doves not to shit everywhere, resulting in random ink-droppings all over the entrance hall. Percival had to lend three of his Aurors to the cleaning staff.

And even though all chocolate boxes are spelled to detect mind-altering potions, three employees had to be hospitalized until the effects of low-level love potions wore off.

“Ma says the… courting is sinful. That holidays like this promote irresponsibility,” Credence says, and once again he sounds like he’s repeating a mantra someone drilled into him time and time again.

“Your mother has an opinion on a lot of things, mh?” Percival asks, watching Credence intently.

He’s surprised when the boy meets his gaze suddenly, his eyes brimming with a need for something Percival isn’t sure how to identify. A need for understanding, maybe.

“Can you tell me why you were upset before?” Percival ventures on, willing Credence to hold his gaze. To his surprise, the boy does it, even though his body is tense and it seems to be a struggle for him to do so.

“It’s nothing,” he says, clearly not even believing it himself.

“Credence…” Percival uncrosses his legs and leans forward, slowly, as if trying to get close to a wounded animal. He never breaks eye contact. Then he reaches out until his hand rests lightly on Credence’s, which are resting on his lap.

The young man takes a shuddering breath and drops his gaze towards their hands. Percival feels Credence’s hands relax beneath his palm, before the young Salemer mutters: “I just thought… maybe you’d come to a meeting.”

Oh, so there’s the rub. “Apologies for that, Credence. I really had planned on coming, but work got in the way.” After a second, he adds: “It’s not always poems and chocolates, I’m afraid,” with a small chuckle. He squeezes the boy’s hands quickly and feels welts and old scars rough against his palm, too late realizing this might cause him pain. If it does, Credence doesn’t show it, though, instead his hands push up, as if they can’t get enough contact all of the sudden. “I want you to know that I’m not known for breaking promises. I’ll make it up to you – lunch once a week.”

Credence’s eyes shoot back up and Percival thinks this is the most they’ve actually looked _at_ each other so far. He can tell the boy can’t believe this offer, and will most likely attempt not to accept it. But Percival has decided on it, it wasn’t actually an offer.

There’s something going on with the power buzzing through the young Salemer, with the church, and Mary Lou Barebone. The Auror in Percival is interested in that. But there’s also the matter of Tina’s reports – the mistreatment, the way Credence carries himself, speaks and acts. And how he reacts to kindness, as if it’s something he expects he has to pay a horrible price for if given to him.

The food arrives and takes away any chance for Credence to protest. It takes a bit of coaxing to get him to even sip from his tea or have a bite of his sandwich and when he does, he does it in absolute silence, staring intently at his plate.

Some of his stiffness seeps out of him after some food and time spent near a fire, though. Percival watches how it seeps out of Credence slowly, his guard let down a mere inch or two. It’s all the wizard needs. He leans forward and reaches out again, not needing a pretence. Credence craves the contact.

“So, you have a sister? The one you gave the gloves to?”

Credence nods. “Her name is Modesty. Chastity is 23. I’m the middle child.”

Of course Percival knows the number of his siblings, knows Credence’s age, and has some more information on the family behind the Second Salemers of Pike Street, but he wants Credence to open up a bit.

“Your mother’s name is on the leaflets, right?”

“Yes, sir. Ma adopted all of us, and leads the New Salem Philanthropic Society. We had nothing, and she gave us a home.” Although his words come out easily – and sound trained again – Credence’s hands tighten under Percival’s palm again.

“That’s very noble of her,” Percival says carefully, making sure his voice doesn’t betray his knowledge of the exact nature of Mary Lou Barebone’s _nobility_.

“We give a meal to the homeless children of the city once a day at the chapel, too,” Credence explains and relaxes again. This seems to be something he actually feels good about and Percival is again surprised at how kind a hundredfold-beaten person can still be.

Percival hums in acknowledgement and thinks for a moment, before he says: “I’d like to know your opinion, my boy.” Credence perks up, but his eyes don’t wander up too far. They’re focused on Percival’s mouth now. “Assuming witches and wizards are a real thing – would they all be evil? No exception?” When Credence remains silent, he adds: “There is no right or wrong answer, I’m just interested in what you think.”

It takes the boy a while to reply, longer than his mother would like him to, Percival supposes. He’s certain she implemented an answer in him, and it’s a good sign he’s trying to come up with his own.

“Witchcraft… has to be evil. If witches are stronger than normal people, they can hurt them.”

“Does one need magic-“ Percival refuses to call it _witchcraft_ “to hurt people?”

And from the way Credence’s hands tighten again, Percival doesn’t need an answer.

oOo

Credence, once more, sits awake that night. This time around it’s not because of disappointment though. It’s because he can still feel _him_. Even after hours and hours. A hand on his back, guiding him to a café. And, more importantly, a hand on his, while they make conversation.

He doesn’t really care what happens with the leaflets, he even forgets the rising panic when he was asked a question, asked after his own opinion. In a split-second, he’d feared that if he gave the wrong answer, everything would be over. Spending time with – having _lunch_ with Mr. Graves has been thrilling, warming, wonderful, and he didn’t want it to end by angering the man who’s been nothing but attentive and nice.

The fear is still there, a new one to add to all of his other fears. The fear of scaring away Mr. Graves.

But it’s unwarranted, well, at least it was today. Mr. Graves understands him.

And he promised to find Credence again! Credence doesn’t dare let the hope grow too big, he just can’t, too well versed in disappointment. But oh, how he wants it to be true, how he wants to see the older man again.

This want is keeping Credence up now, the longing for a bit of Mr. Graves’ time, for another chance of being touched, being taken out of the cold by warm hands, being held.  His heart flutters at the thought; Credence knows it’s wrong, it’s sinful.

He craves the touch for more than one reason; not just for the kindness, but because he’s never felt what he feels now. A flush in his cheeks, warmth spreading through his body and pooling in his lap, his skin tingling at the thought of a warm hand even innocently placed on his back. Credence wants to resist, doesn’t want to taint the kindness he’s been shown, but when he closes his eyes he sees a broad chest, dark hair speckled with silver and warm lips muttering sweet nothings in his ear. And dark eyes that seem to look into his very soul.

Finally, he gives in and pushes his right hand into his pyjama bottoms, no longer able to resist.


	2. Then he'd look into my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: internalised homophobia (appropriate for the time this is set in) towards the end.  
> 

**March**

“Goldstein, your wand work was sloppy on that last Orbis jinx; Roscoe, what in Morgaine’s name did you think you were doing using _Lacarnum Inflamari_ while running! You stand still when aiming, that’s how you don’t set your own colleagues on fire, for Merlin’s sake,” Percival barks out, debriefing his team after a mission he observed from the sidelines. Abernathy and Jauncey are being treated by the medi-witches at the moment after accidentally being set on fire and Potter holds his wand against his own temple, a steady stream of icy air blowing against it. It’s swelling up nevertheless.

“Sir-“ Roscoe starts, but one look from Percival stops him abruptly.

“If I have to start taking care of every little incident around here, we might as well just all hand in our notices and let the No-Majs take over because I don’t have time for that!”

Potter and Roscoe stare intently at the floor, only Tina manages to look him in the eyes, her mouth a grim line. He sighs. “Dismissed.”

The two men hurry to gather their things and walk out, but Tina remains in the frame of his door.

“Yes, Miss Goldstein?”

“I’d like a word in private, Sir,” she replies, glancing towards the open door. He closes it with a flick of his wand and points toward a chair in front of his desk. He remains standing when she sits down, but she’s not threatened. So far.

“It’s about my… special mission,” she starts, carefully glancing at his reaction. His nostrils flare for a second when he thinks about Credence and the Second Salemers, then he sighs and walks around the desk, leans against it with his arms crossed over his chest. Tina pulls a file from her coat and places it next to him on the desk.

“The woman, Mary Lou Barebone – I’ve observed her for the better part of the month and created a plan with her usual patterns. She doesn’t stray from them too often, but there are exceptions on certain days – it seems to have a lot to do with her mood.” She hands a paper to Percival who quickly skims it. There are dates, times and locations – when the Salemers hold their regular meetings, at what time the homeless kids of the neighbourhood can get meals, delivery times for groceries and much more.

“I’ve tried talking to one of the kids that seem to have been adopted by her, a boy, quite tall, dark hair-“

“Tina!” Percival reprimands tensely, easily slipping into the more familiar tone with his protégé now that the rest of the squad is gone. “You know the law! No contact unless it’s absolutely necessary!”

The defiant line to her mouth is new to him. Under different circumstances, he’d admire her for it. She has enormous potential, truly is the best Auror in the department with the exception of himself, of course. Her outbursts of emotional reactions are the only thing truly standing in her way.

“I just thought I’d gather some inside knowledge,” she defends herself, clearly hurt by his words. She knows perfectly well he doesn’t always adhere to every single law – but then again, he _is_ Percival fucking Graves, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement and she’s a simple Auror.

“You are to observe, Tina, not to act,” he tries to make up for his harsh words. “Keep an eye on the threat they might pose, and, if necessary, contain it. _If necessary_.”

She huffs, but nods, indicating she’s understood. It takes her a moment to reply, then, and he can see it’s truly something else bothering her. “It’s just-“ she takes a deep breath and when she looks at him, her face is ashen, her eyebrows drawn together as if in pain, “Perce, you should see how she treats her kids, especially the boy. I’m pretty sure she hits him, says stuff to him that makes me want to jinx her just thinking about it.”

There they are again, the emotions clouding her judgement. Usually, she’s very professional, even when talking to him privately. That she now resorts to using his first name, abbreviated even, is a sign by how troubled she is by what she’s seen.

Of course there’s a white hot flame burning in Percival’s mind, too, at the description of the abuse Credence is facing, but unlike her, he doesn’t let his face betray his emotions.

“I understand. But there’s nothing we can do about how No-Majs treat each other, as long as the wizarding community is not threatened by it.”

She looks at him, speechless for a second. When she does find her words again, they are dripping with disbelief. “So we should just watch how this- this _person_ treats children? Percival, you can’t be serious!”

“Miss Goldstein,” he admonishes, his voice steely. Tina looks like she’s just been whipped. “We have to follow the law here. Keep an eye on the group’s activities regarding the wizarding world. Not more and not less.”

She gets up abruptly, passion burning in her eyes and hands tightened into fists. But she lowers her head. “Yes, Mr. Graves.” She walks towards the door, but stops in the frame and turns back to face him, jaw squared.  “And my wand work was not sloppy. Sir.”

He shuts the door in her face with an irritated flick of his hand, hating the way this conversation went. Tina is one of the few people he trusts and respects deeply. But even she can’t know about his interest in Credence or the time spent with him.

It was true what he said, as horrible as it is wizards can’t get involved in petty squabbles between No-Majs and domestic abuse, as disgusting as it might be is not the division of Percival and his Aurors.

However, if one party involved would happen to be verifiable magic… He doesn’t know what to make of Credence yet, can’t risk his position and very well _life_ for repeatedly breaking Rappaport’s Law without justifiable cause. But once he can say for certain that there is abuse of a person capable of magic involved – well, he’ll bring down the whole might of MACUSA’s Magical Law Enforcement down on Mary Lou Barebone and her disgusting Second Salemers.

oOo

Percival notices something is wrong with Credence as soon as he sees him. The Auror himself looks like shit after a long night spent in the rain in front of an apartment complex – some unknown force had destroyed it, no witnesses except for scared No-Majs muttering incomprehensible things about wind and black clouds or fog. There were massive amounts of dark magic residue, though, which was why he had spent all night there.

Credence, however, doesn’t look like he simply pulled an all-nighter, too. His usually creamy white features have an unhealthy grey tang to them, while his cheeks and forehead are splotched red. When Percival lifts the boy’s face without so much as a preamble, simply guiding him up to look at him with a finger under his chin, Credence’s eyes barely focus on him and shine glassy.

The wizard feels the heat radiating of the young man in waves.

“Hello, Mr. Graves,” Credence mumbles, and then his eyes flutter close and he breaks down.

Percival slides out his wand instantly, while he’s already muttering the incantation for a Notice-Me-Not-Charm so the passers-by don’t question a well-dressed male clutching to the lifeless body of an unconscious young man. New York is intolerant to more than just magic and booze.

It’s not a lot of effort to carefully carry the malnourished body into the closest ally and although Percival is more than clear on the fact he’s breaking several laws, he disapparates with Credence in his arms, escaping to the safety of his flat.

Under normal circumstances, Credence would probably be on the floor now, throwing up his soul at the force of the magic required for the change of scenery. But as it is, he just groans, not regaining consciousness.

Percival places him on the sofa gently before flicking his wand to set the charmed tea pot into motion and lighting the fireplace. Then he floats a pillow and blanket from his bedroom over to where the boy is sleeping and moves towards one of his book shelves, trying to find a useful spellbook.

He’s never been great with healing and household spells. True, he’s one of the most formidable duellists he knows, he’s proficient with wandless and silent magic, a task only attempted by powerful wizards, he’s an accomplished Occlumens, and he’s not above healing spells stitching together broken skin and bones – everything useful needed when fighting dark wizards and magic. While his battle magic is superior, his household magic is less so. He doesn’t deal with colds, fevers, or elaborate three-course-dinners, usually.

At least he’s mostly sure Credence won’t react badly to being treated with magic. If he truly is a Squib who can’t tap into his own magic, at least his body knows how to react to it.

With a triumphant grunt Percival finally pulls out _A Collection of Above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick, and Surgery_ , a leftover from his time at Ilvermorny. After a short search, he finds the recipe for Pepper-Up Potion and, with a look at the still unconscious boy, uses _Accio_ to find Mandrake root and Bicorn horn in his hopelessly messy and stuffed cupboards. Further search turns up a small cauldron.

For a moment, he contemplates preparing the potion in the kitchen, away from Credence’s eyes should he wake up, but the young man is out cold, shivering even under the thick blanket and tossing around heavily. Percival gets up and wets a piece of cloth that he places on Credence’s forehead carefully, allowing himself the luxury of grazing his knuckles over one feverish cheek shortly.

It’s the first time Percival gets the chance to actually study Credence’s features without the younger man turning away or lowering his head to stare at the ground. He has delicate features, smooth skin and eyelashes that are frankly ridiculously long. While his eyebrows are not quite as impressive as Percival’s, they give his face an expressiveness that’s even visible when he’s unconscious. And the lips… they’re sinful, even when chapped from being outside all day. And even the awful haircut looks better when ruffled.

Percival is keenly aware that his sexual orientation is more than just frowned upon in the No-Maj society. It’s not as bad within the wizarding community, but even there he doesn’t talk about his private life or interests. They just assume he’s married to his work, and he won’t correct them. Witches like Tina’s sister could figure out more, but this is where Occlumency comes in handy for him.

He’s come to terms with it easily, not bothered by what or whom he likes – but even he realizes the implications of becoming close to the man on his sofa, who’s not only much younger than him, but also possibly a No-Maj and living with the burden of his horrible life, never having been shown kindness or affection. Percival would be a monster to corrupt the boy, who’s so starved for touch, for affection that he probably can’t distinguish or doesn’t care who gives it to him. Just because Credence is off age, it’s legal in that regard – but that doesn’t make it _right_.

But now, with the young man unconscious, Percival allows himself the pleasure of drinking him in for a short moment. Then, when Credence tosses again in his sleep, Percival sets up the cauldron on the small coffee table and goes about his potion making.

He’ll never be a great potioneer, but the Pepper-Up Potion isn’t too complicated and soon enough, the spicy smell coming from the cauldron fills the whole living room – when Percival breathes in too deeply, his eyes start watering. He finishes off the potion with a very lightly dosed Cheering Charm, just when the alarm he cast on his oven goes off.

He hurries to the kitchen to take out the loaf of bread that had been baking in it – to be quite honest, it was bread from a day ago that had gone stale, but the combined wonders of No-Maj technology and magic allowed for a sort of re-crispening-process that makes it mostly edible. Realizing he left his wand on the coffee table, he putters about the kitchen and grabs a plate and the admittedly meagre contents of a shelf that consists of a sad, half-empty jar of jam.

And when Percival turns back to the living room, he freezes on the spot.

Credence’s sleep-mussed head pokes out of his blanket, which he kept wrapped around himself as he sat up. He seems to be frozen on the spot, too, and when Percival silently steps closer until he can see the boy’s profile, he feels is heart jump. 36-year-old Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security, feels warmth spreading in his body at the sight in front of him.

The feverish, sickly-pale young man on his sofa, representing the most furious anti-magic society in the USA, stares in utter awe at the self-stirring cauldron on the small table in front of him, one hand poking out of the blanket-wrap and reaching out carefully. Percival realizes the pull that his wand exudes on Credence.

“Credence?” he calls out quietly, but nevertheless startles the boy slightly.

However, Credence doesn’t scream, or cower, or attack. He just looks at Percival like it’s the first time he’s ever truly seen him, his eyebrows furrowing together and his lips slightly apart. His eyes are shiny, from the fever or tears threating to spill Percival doesn’t know.

“You’re a… witch,” Credence finally whispers, then immediately makes a face, realizing how strange it sounds.

“Wizard,” Percival supplies with a small smile he hopes is not threatening and carefully places down the tray in his hands. A mistake, because now he’s not sure what to do with them.

“This is- magic?” Credence continues and turns to look at the cauldron again.

“Yes,” Percival confirms, then slowly stretches his hand and lets his wand whip into it. Credence’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets and Percival realizes what a picture he must be right now. He’s towering only a couple steps away from Credence, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his wand in his outstretched hand. Some powerful wizards have almost shit their pants at this sight. “Are you afraid?”

And Credence, looking lost, dishevelled and feverish, his eyes wide and his mouth still forming a silent ‘oh’ shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t be afraid of you, Mr. Graves.”

Percival thinks that this must be the first time he’s ever heard these words, but coming from Credence they mean more than he would’ve thought possible.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence’s voice interrupts his musings, “am I dreaming?” He blinks too often, as if he can’t believe his eyes.

“I’m sure you have better things to dream of than this,” Percival replies easily and floats the tray up from the floor. He’s certain he can hear Credence’s jaw hit the floor and unsuccessfully tries to hide his amusement. “Me floating tea trays?” He laughs.

“There’s nothing better,” Credence mumbles, almost to himself, and Percival’s face falls a bit. Of course when life is hell, even dreams like that must be a relief. Or did Credence mean dreaming of him-

“I prepared something to make you feel better. You passed out in the street,” the wizard explains, forcing his focus back on the most important task at hand – severely sick Credence on his sofa.

It’s only at these words that Credence seems to realize his surroundings and the state he’s in. His face falls immediately, the wonder replaced by utter panic as his eyes widen. “Where-“ He chokes on his own words and this time Percival is sure the wetness of his eyes comes from barely suppressed tears.

“You’re at my flat. Please don’t worry; I’ll take you back home or anywhere else as soon as you want me to. But you’re in no state to be outside, or up.”

“I can’t- Ma, she’ll- I have to go back, you don’t understand, Mr. Graves!”

“I think I do, my boy,” the older man replies and gently takes the hand that Credence still has outside of his cocoon in one hand. The angry welts are clearly visible. Some of them are fresh.

Credence whimpers and tries to pull his hand back, but Percival thumbs over his pulse and he stops, instead pushing into the touch.  When the older wizard looks at him, Credence doesn’t meet his eyes.

“How about you stay here for just a little while. I’ll take you back in an hour or two, just until you’re warmed up and have eaten something. Your mother will never notice you’re gone, I promise.”

“Y-you really want me to be here?”

And Percival follows an instinct, untangles his hand from the boy’s and places it gently on his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touch. Credence is burning up, Percival can feel it on his skin. “Yes.”

This is when Credence finally breaks down, a long sob shaking his whole body and he just comes crashing into Percival, both hands helplessly raking over the wizard’s chest and his head sliding down until it rests between Percival’s neck and shoulder.

Percival comforts him as best as he can, rubs circles between his shoulder blades and whispers his name over and over.

At some point, the tears stop and Percival suspects it’s more because the young man’s fever-racked body finally ran out of fluids than because he’s actually done with crying. However, there’s no time like the present, so he carefully shifts Credence and himself around until they both fit on the sofa, Credence curled up against his side and staring bleary-eyed into space. He doesn’t speak.

But when Percival floats a mug from the kitchen and makes it fill itself with the Pepper-Up Potion, then float over to them, Credence’s eyes follow the process. Finally, the mug nudges against the cocoon that hides most of Credence’s body away and he looks at Percival wide-eyed, as if asking for permission.

“Go on,” the Auror tells him, and Credence carefully reaches out for the mug, plucking it out of the air. He sniffs curiously and his head whips back to Graves when the spiciness makes his nostrils burn and eyes water again. Graves grins freely. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t taste too bad.”

At his words, his trusting Credence simply focuses back on the mug and takes a deep sip. There’s steam coming from his ears instantly and he splutters – but then he barks out a laugh, unpractised as if he’s unused to the reaction – which might very well be the case – and while Percival is shocked for a second, he can’t help but join the young man’s laughter.

Credence takes sip after sip, coughing and laughing at the same time, until the brew is gone and he finally stops steaming from his ears. When he turns his head and looks at Percival, their eyes meet and the wizard’s breath gets caught at how young, fragile and happy Credence suddenly looks, even through the red tint of the fever. The potion is already starting to affect him, easing up the symptoms of the flu and the Cheering Charm must be part of the reason for his sudden laughter.

“Will you show me more magic, please?” the young boy begs and his face is so open Percival wants to run his hands over it, wants to pull him close and- _this is not what this is about,_ he tries to tell himself, reprimands himself. But it doesn’t make him want Credence any less.

Instead of doing something stupid, he summons the wand from the table back into his hand silently and thinks of something to show Credence, who is now leaning against him again, his head resting on Percival’s shoulder.

Since any sort of destruction magic is off the table, it takes Percival a moment to think of something. Then he waves his wand over to a stack of papers that immediately start folding themselves into the shapes of mice – it’s a basic spell for anyone working at the MACUSA, but Credence is utterly taken aback by this display and watches the scurrying creatures in amazement.

Then Graves produces some sparks, tiny blue birds and finally lights up the tip of his wand with a whispered “ _Lumos_!”

Credence sits back a bit so he can look at Graves and the amount of eye contact they’re making today is astounding, really. “Are there… _spells_ … for everything?”

“Not everything. But for a lot of things,” Percival explains. “Some are for fighting, others for protection. And some – Credence, would you allow me to do something for you?”

The young man’s face shows his confusion. “You mean use some magic?”

Percival nods.

“I-“ Credence takes a deep breath. “Yes. I trust you, Mr. Graves.”

“Percival,” the Auror offers, and reaches out for Credence’s hand. With only the barest hesitation, the boy gives it to him. Percival carefully thumbs over the most prominent red marks, focusing on the spell in his mind – and Credence’s eyes widen when the skin starts healing under his eyes. “Some are for healing,” Percival concludes and gives Credence the chance to pull back his hand. He doesn’t.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence still stares at his hand, actually touches it with the other one too feel the now smoothened skin. “Why… are you showing me this? Isn’t it- secret?”

Percival doesn’t hide his content and squeezes Credence’s now healed hand. “That’s a very smart question, my boy.”

From the way the young Salemer blushes a deep crimson and looks to the side, someone calling him smart must’ve been the first time, too. Percival wonders how many firsts they’ll still come across – his mind helpfully presenting entirely impure thoughts, which he more or less resolutely tries to push back.

“You’re special, Credence. I knew this from the moment I saw you for the first time.”

Credence’s eyebrows are drawn together when he carefully glances at Percival again, the blush still prominent on his cheeks. “Ma says-“

“Your mother might be very perceptive,” Percival interrupts him, nostrils flaring in anger at the thought of Mary Lou Barebone, “- but she’s wholly ignorant when it comes to you.” Not to mention her cruel, vile and evil nature. “There’s power in you, Credence. I can feel it.”

oOo

Credence feels as if being hit in the face with a bucket of ice water. Actually, that is not a very accurate description, considering the excitement he feels. “Power?”

“Magic,” Mr. Graves clarifies, watching him intently.

“But… I’m not a wizard,” Credence stutters out, at least fifty percent certain that statement is true. Then again, it would explain why Ma punishes him more than anyone else. Maybe she knows. Maybe she- _No_. He can’t be a wizard. Being able to do anything like what Mr. Graves has shown him has to be way beyond him.

“You’re not, no,” the man next to him admits, but before disappointment can crush Credence, he adds: “But maybe you can be taught.”

And now Credence is sure that if there really is a God (and of course there is one, it’d be wrong to think anything else) this must be His doing. “Will you-?” Credence stops himself because his voice starts trembling and maybe that was the wrong thing to ask, after all, Mr. Graves has no reason to do this. He’s a busy man, he must’ve a billion better things to do than to teach Credence anything.

Dread spreads in his stomach, and if he wouldn’t be used to rollercoasters of dark and darker emotions, Credence would surely have passed out by now.

But then a wonder happens, because Mr. Graves – he won’t call him by his first name, can’t bring himself to disrespect the man who’s shown him this much kindness – brings his hand up to the nape of Credence’s neck and waits until Credence can bring himself to meet the wizard’s eyes. “It would be my pleasure.”

His own watery smile is mirrored with an – admittedly less watery – one from Mr. Graves, who adds: “You have to get better, first. And I need to do some research. There is a lot to do at work at the moment, so I don’t know how long it will take me to get ready, but I promise you, Credence, that I will teach you if you can be taught.”

Credence doesn’t know how to hug, hasn’t been hugged once in his life. But he follows his instincts now, shifts around on the sofa until he can wrap both arms tentatively around the taller man next to him and nestles his head in the soft curve between Mr. Graves’ head and shoulder. After a second, he feels a weight around his side and a hand in his hair, petting him gently. Silent tears fall on Mr. Graves’ back, tears of happiness.

oOo

Mary Lou has told her children time after time that there is no place in their lives for love – or, as she likes to call it – sinning. They have a cause to prepare and fight for and only the purest souls are ready to do not only her bidding, but also that of God.

Witchcraft will always be the worst of all sins, but it’s followed very closely by love. The carnal aspect, too. Or especially. Everything that goes past more than essential touches is considered evil. Mary Lou makes sure no-one, but especially not Credence spends too much time in the shower. Hand-holding is fine to lead Modesty through the crowded cities of New York but that is the only exception.

The Barebone children don’t go out, don’t talk to people their age, and don’t fall in love; in fact, they don’t know what love is except for the twisted version her mother bestows on them.

Credence never thought about girls when he grew up. He prayed, helped his mother with the activities of the Second Salemers and cleaned. He only realized that something was off when he started dreaming about faceless, nameless shapes touching him, kissing him and – doing things that left him wide awake, panting, painfully hard. The shapes were always male, and after weeks of panicking, he finally gave in and touched himself, crying through the whole process and sobbing even harder when he was done.

It didn’t take long for Mary Lou to find out.

Until this day, Credence isn’t sure what tipped her off, but the beating he received at 17 was one of the most painful of his life. His back and bottom were raw, bleeding, and he could only sleep on his stomach for over two weeks. It was as if Ma tried to beat every single sinful thought, dream and memory out of his body. He was sent to pray for hours, until his legs were numb and his knees raw from kneeling.

The thoughts didn’t stop though. Credence rarely indulged, and he certainly had no time to even look at other men, much less do anything about it. But then Percival Graves stepped into his life.

Credence doesn’t want to think of the older man that way because he doesn’t deserve to be degraded to an object of lust in his mind. He’s kind, compassionate, caring – and a _wizard_ , Credence still can’t believe it. Unfortunately, though, he’s also incredibly attractive and although Credence has no idea what exactly it is he even wants to do with the man, what it is couples do, his whole body feels as if on fire when he thinks of the warm hands on his, how it feels to lean into his chest, the way he smells like expensive cologne and something Credence thinks is the smell of magic. How his eyes seem to see into Credence’s very soul. How close he comes when he wants Credence to calm down, or tells him something important.

Credence is keenly aware of the implications of his sexuality, of the wrongness of it that he hears about the streets, the slurs, the names they call people like him. This is yet another reason justifying Ma’s beatings. If he’d just be normal, then at least his thoughts would only be half as sinful.

He wants Mr. Graves, so much it’s almost painful, but what he wants even more than the touch is his attention, the time they spent together. Credence makes a silent vow to never, ever act on his deep, primal want for Mr. Graves, too afraid of it and the reaction he is sure to face – disgust, being called a freak, being sent away.


	3. Lord knows, to my surprise

**April**

The incidents seem to get more frequent now. Although a small number of his Aurors work on finding out more about the strange dark magic around the clock, there hasn’t been any clue on what they’re dealing with so far. The pattern is always the same: destruction, and witnesses reporting a dark swirling mass. It’s basically nothing to go on.

The area has been taped off on one side of the street and enchanted with several Notice-Me-Not Charms aimed at the No-Majs that bustle around across the street. It’s effective, not one of them looks twice to where the investigation squad is working.

Except that’s not completely true. There is one person in the crowd stealing side glances every few minutes.

Percival notices him almost instantly, his own mind almost tuned in on the younger man. However, it’s not like he can just leave his team and casually stroll over. Instead, he concentrates on the task at hand. Tina and Potter have finished assisting the Obliviator dealing with the No-Maj home owners that are standing in a corner of the building with blank faces, looking like lost sheep. Their house is completely wrecked.

That’s when President Picquery apparates next to Percival.

“How bad is it?” she asks without preamble.

“We can’t re-erect the building, the dark magic residue is too dangerous to just leave here surrounding No-Majs,” he explains.

She makes a face. “What are we dealing with here, Percy? Tell me it’s not Grindelwald.”

“It’s not Grindelwald,” he tells her, and suspects only her presidential dignity stop her short from punching him. “There would be bodies if it was his doing,” he elaborates and raises one eyebrow, rolling his eyes towards the huddling, very much alive No-Majs.

She exhales audibly, allowing herself that much in his and only his presence. “So what is it?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe a creature of some sorts. Or a kid with manifesting magic, though that wouldn’t explain the traces of dark magic left. Still, I ordered Goldstein to access to the birth records, see how many children under 11 haven’t shown signs yet and check out their alibis. It’ll take her a while, though.”

Seraphina nods in agreement. “Do what you can. You know I can’t reroute any funds at the moment, what with the Grindelwald-situation in Europe.”

“I know. Won’t you consider-“

“No, Percy.” She gives him a steely look. “We’ve discussed this. I can’t let my best Auror join a manhunt all over Europe. Especially not if they’re not even sure Grindelwald is still there.”

Percival knows when not to follow up a discussion, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy with how it went. A part of him understands her reasoning, but a different part sees no point in solving unknown magic explosions or attacks when there is no pattern, no clue and nothing to do but clean up.

He takes care to hide his annoyance, though, and knows he succeeds when the president looks back towards the No-Majs. “Is there anything we can do for them?”

“We’ve a list of their most valuable and valued possessions. As soon as we erect an extended Disillusionment Charm, we’ll summon them from the ruins,” Percival informs her.

Seraphina slips out her wand, looking at him expectantly. He doesn’t question her and just raises his wand, too. Side by side, they cast the charm, a large silver screen streaming from their wands and settling around the destroyed house and the Aurors working within.

It’s far from a regular occurrence to have the President show up at an investigation site and having her perform magic in support even less so. But the Aurors know of the friendship and unwavering trust between their Head of Department and the President. Seeing Percival and Seraphina together is not uncommon. So they take what they’re given and Tina, Potter and Jauncey perform Summoning Spells, bringing up money, small trinkets and heirlooms from the ruins and repairing them for the No-Majs that still stare off into space with a vacant expression.

oOo

The soft drizzle of the early morning hours keeps Credence busy with trying to keep his pamphlets dry in addition to handing them out. That is why it takes him a while to notice what’s going on on the other side of the street.

He glances around, but none of the people walking past him briskly, hurrying to get out of the wetness, seem to notice anything strange beyond a normal police investigation. Except that all the ‘police officers’ carry wands and wear suits instead of uniforms. There’s even a woman or two.

Then Mr. Graves appears out of nowhere with only so much as a swirling mass of black and white popping into existence and Credence realises he’s not supposed to see any of this. He quickly turns his eyes back down, on the pamphlets, but the draw the investigation site and Mr. Graves exude is too much soon. When he carefully glances back up again, he startles when he meets Mr. Graves’ eyes for a split second.

In another swirl of colour, a woman now appears – a coloured woman nonetheless – who starts talking to Mr. Graves.

Credence has all but forgotten about his pamphlets, shields them with his body as best as he can and tries to watch what’s going on without catching any attention. He can’t hear what they’re talking about, maybe there’s a spell for that too, but he thinks that Mr. Graves looks almost… weary. It’s not in his face – Credence has realised long ago that Mr. Graves is a master in keeping his face clear of anything he doesn’t want people to see. But it’s something about him that makes Credence worry, makes him want to ask what’s wrong.

Of course it’s none of his business, none at all. He’s immensely grateful for everything Mr. Graves tells him, shows him, but he would never have the audacity to- he can’t ask too many questions, can’t want too much. Can’t make Mr. Graves annoyed. Can’t lose him.

True, the wizard never seems to get tired of his questions, never seems to tire of showing him magic, explaining him things. He comes to him, without fail, once a week, and these are the best days of Credence’s life.

But still, Credence can’t risk anything. Yet he dislikes seeing Mr. Graves unhappy. He’s done so much for Credence, and Credence wishes he could repay him somehow.

His musings are interrupted when the woman and Mr. Graves raise their wands. The woman’s is partly pink, and the corners of Credence’s mouth twitch involuntarily. Then, a silver screen appears out of the tips of the wands and suddenly Credence can’t see the investigation site, Mr. Graves or the woman anymore.

He keeps watching for another moment, but then turns back to his work, head held down, feeling the drizzle cold on his neck.

“Credence,” Mr. Grave’s voice startles him after a couple of minutes, and a warm hand rests on his neck, shielding it from the water.

He looks up, then carefully steps a bit to the side until they’re gone from the busy sidewalk and standing in a semi-dark ally. “Hello, Mr. Graves.”

“How are you?”

Credence shrugs, relishing the feel of the hand that still haven’t left his neck. “Fine. Ma’s… down with the flu.” Chastity is taking care of her, she’s weakened. He felt horrible for being glad about it, but there are no beatings. Credence prayed for an understanding God, so the guilt of his happiness won’t crush him.

“That’s good,” Mr. Graves speaks out what Credence’s been thinking. “You’re damp – may I?” He raises his wand and Credence nods, happily meeting Mr. Graves’ eyes.

With a flick and a silent incantation, Credence can feel warmth building up between his skin and clothes, as if someone put a pocket of warm air in his shirt. It’s heavenly.

“This won’t last for more than the day,” Mr. Graves explains, but Credence is thankful anyway, would even be thankful if it was a five-second deal. “Credence, I noticed you watching me before,” the older man than says and even though the magically warm air is still heating him up, the shrinking but still ever-present knot in the young Salemer’s stomach tightens.

“I’m sorry. I- didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t apologise,” Mr. Graves tells him seriously, running his thumb over Credence’s cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze again. “I’m merely interested in what you think.”

“What I- think?” Credence’s brows furrow in confusion.

Mr. Graves rephrases his question. “What did you see, my boy?”

“Uhm… the destroyed house. Some- _wizards-“_ he still stumbles over the word from time to time, “-doing magic on a group of people. You appeared, and a bit later a woman. You talked, and then you did magic and disappeared behind a silver cloud.”

“What else?” Mr. Graves watches him patiently and Credence hesitates for a moment before he observes: “You’re different when you are at work.”

This seems to amuse Mr. Graves. “How so?”

Credence blushes. “You don’t smile.” Almost instantly, he realises how stupid he must sound and hurries to add: “I- I mean, of course you don’t- your work is… serious. But your face is just- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Shh, I think I understand, Credence,” Mr. Graves soothes him.

“You like the woman, right?” Credence mutters, trying to remember every detail.

Mr. Graves nods. “We have been friends for a long time.”

“But something she said made you upset.”

Now it’s Mr. Graves turn to look confused, although he hides it much better than Credence. It’s not so much a look as more of a – vibe that he sends out. “What makes you think so?”

Credence squirms, unsure of how to describe the fact that he could just _tell_. “I just… thought so.”

“You thought right,” Mr. Graves admits, “but it’s not important anymore. What’s more interesting is that you noticed us at all. We put up a charm that makes people look the other way. I do the same thing when I meet you somewhere or take you along via Side-Along-Apparition.”

“So… what does that mean?” Credence is unsure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Well, you clearly have some sort of talent.”

“But I couldn’t see through the silver screen.”

Mr. Graves chuckles. “The screen is called a Disillusionment Charm. And I reckon if it’s erected by two powerful mages, no one should be able to see through, especially not someone untrained like you, my boy.”

Credence flushes again, but he realises this is not Mr. Graves making fun of him.

“Mr. Graves?” he then asks, remembering another detail. “Are Mr. Patton and his family alright?”

“The No-Majs?” Mr. Graves narrows his eyes. “You know them?”

Credence shakes his head. “I don’t _know_ them- they just… sometimes they rough up some of the younger children when they stand in front of their house. There’s  a warm draft coming up from their basement. That’s … nice. In winter, I mean.”

The wizard’s nostrils flare – Credence notices they often do that when he reports on violence. It makes his heart jump in his chest to see Mr. Graves care.

“I see,” the older man says. “They’re okay, yes. Shaken, of course, but unharmed.” He glances over to where Credence can now see rubble and ruins again, the wizards and Disillusionment Charm gone. “Will you join me for coffee?”

Credence looks at the drizzle falling outside the ally, at the grey and black people hurrying to and fro, hidden under their umbrellas. Then he smiles at Mr. Graves. “I’d like that.”

oOo

**May**

Percival’s apartment isn’t big, but its space is used to its best advantage. There are doors leading from a small hallway to the right, where the bedroom is, and to the bathroom on the left. Straight through is the living room with a kitchen counter on one side, next to a glass balcony door that can be opened to let in air. And that’s it.

But Credence walks the small space with reverence in every step, his hand always outstretched but never quite touching anything. The bookshelves lining the walls of the hallway, living room and even parts of the bathroom are filled with a mix between magic books, MACUSA files and No-Maj literature. There are magical trinkets placed on every available space, from Sneakoscopes to a hand mirror sized Foe-Glass that Credence avoids like the plague when Percival explains what it does.

The days are getting warmer now, and Credence is still dressed in the same outfit he’s always wearing but after Percival has opened the balcony doors to let in a fresh breeze of semi-warm spring air and shrugged out of his waistcoat and tie, folding back his sleeves and opening the first two buttons of his shirt, Credence allows himself a small comfort and carefully folds his own thin jacket over a chair, pushing back the sleeves of his shirt, too. Percival pretends very hard not to see the scars that Credence clearly feels self-conscious about.

He looks even younger like this, but infinitely more handsome once a little tension has left his shoulders. If he’d stand up straight, nobody on the street would recognize him as the Salemer boy handing out pamphlets. Well, at least if he changed the haircut, too.

The day is beautiful for many reasons, the foremost being Mary Lou being out of town for the day, and Chastity being in charge. She’s sent Credence away with even more pamphlets than usual, considering she has to take care of the chapel today; Credence has to carry her pamphlets, too. Percival had collected him early in the afternoon, just after lunch time, which gives them almost half a day together in peace. To say Credence is drunk on happiness would be an understatement.

Percival just watches him roam the apartment and explains books and trinkets as they move from room to room. The bathroom holds mostly mundane things with the exception of a magical razor and a whole cupboard full of potion ingredients and various magical salves, lotions and potions for healing.

“Your job must be dangerous,” Credence remarks with a look at the overabundance of healing supplies. Today, he is almost carefree – or at least as carefree as he will ever be, Percival supposes. They make eye contact every once in a while and his head isn’t lowered as much anymore. He drinks in every detail with the thirst of a man dying from dehydration, soaks everything up like a sponge.

“It is,” Percival admits. “Dark magic is not to be taken lightly.”

“But you’re powerful, right?”

“Quite so.” The wizard doesn’t boast, it’s just a fact he knows to be true. He is extraordinary, and he became so through hard work and relentless training. Also, a few lucky genes, he supposes. “Still, you have to be prepared to give yourself to the cause. Not stupidly or recklessly, though.” He gives Credence a half-grin. “That’s where being smart comes in handy.”

Credence doesn’t quite smile back; he looks at the potions warily. Then he mutters, more to himself than to Percival: “I don’t like the idea of you being hurt.”

Percival tries to hide his astonishment. There’s this young man standing in his bathroom, his bare arms and hands showing off a myriad of scars and bruises, this young man who’s been hurt over and over again simply for being who he is – and he’s worried about Percival’s health, of all people.

The urge to just rush forward and kiss him, worry deliciously plump lips with his teeth, push him back until he hits the back of the shower, press him against the cold tiles until he’s forgotten all about hurt and pain becomes overwhelming. Percival is afraid of how clearly he can picture it and it takes a lot of mental effort to simply reach around Credence and carefully shut the doors of the cupboard.

“It takes more than a couple of mediocre wizards to hurt me.” He tries to sound reassuring, not sure if it comes out as pressed as he thinks he sounds. “Come on, I think there are some more interesting things in the rest of the flat.”

Credence actually follows him out of the bathroom, but soon gets distracted with the one or the other thing again; Percival makes his way to the kitchen where his utensils are currently floating around to make coffee. When Credence doesn’t follow after a couple of minutes, he raises an eyebrow and puts down his cup, ready to investigate.

He retraces his steps and huffs in relief when he finds Credence in his bedroom, sitting on the very edge of his bed and holding a picture frame. The boy startles when Percival steps in and makes a half-hearted attempt to stand up, realizing where he’s sitting, but Percival motions for him to remain seated.

The fascination that the picture exudes is understandable – being a magical photograph, it moves. It’s from 1920, on the day Percival got promoted to Director of Magical Law Enforcement. He’s standing in the centre, shaking the only recently appointed President Picquery’s hand. Although they’d both known each other for a while at that point – Seraphina calling him Percy and being the only person alive to do so and Percival regularly spiking her coffee with a shot of Gigglewater in revenge because he was younger and pettier then – neither of them are smiling, what with it being an official occasion at all. Percival has his whole department of Aurors at his back, while a couple more officials stand behind the Madame President.

“You look so… serious,” Credence mutters, tilting the picture slightly as if he wants to see if there’s a tiny compartment where the moving people are hidden.

“I was promoted that day,” Percival explains. “The lady shaking my hand is our president.”

“You know the president?” the young Salemers eyes go wide. “And she’s a woman? A… black woman?” He pauses. “I know her, I think.”

“The office of President of the Wizarding Community of North America has never been restricted to only males, or white people. The No-Majs are exceptionally backwardly in that respect,” Percival explains, not without a touch of haughtiness. “And yes, you do. You saw her in April, at the investigation site.”

Credence is almost as fascinated by this information as he is by the photograph. “What else can they do?”

“Women?” Percival chuckles. “Anything, really. There are Aurors like me who are women, medi-witches, female workers in the Wand Permit office and any other office, really.” He remembers Tina’s younger sister. “Of course some work as secretaries and waitresses, too.”

“That sounds very… progressive.”

Percival leans against his shelf now, crossing his legs at the ankles and looks at Credence still sitting on the edge of his bed. It’s a difficult topic. “In some aspects, we are. Others, we’re lacking. Rappaport’s Law enforces total segregation between the magic and non-magic communities.”

The young man concentrates, biting his lower lip. Suddenly it occurs to Percival where they are. His bedroom, Credence on his bed, biting his lips, which only makes them redder and draws attention to how delicious they look. As if Percival isn’t on the brink of going crazy looking at them already. How easy it’d be to just tip the boy backwards, ravish him senseless. Press him into the mattress and hear him moan – he would be loud, incredibly expressive, the way he hungers even for the softest, lightest of touches. All this pent-up tension would burst out, making him come undone under Percival’s attention.

“But this means that you’re- you’re breaking the law. With me.”

Credence’s words effectively rip him out of his fantasies and Percival starts recounting Magic Law paragraphs in his head to counter the growing hardness in his trousers.

“You’re special, Credence. I told you that.” His voice is too raspy, he knows it. But there’s nothing to be done about that.

“But- if I’m not? Special?”

“I can feel your power, my boy. You _are_ special.” Percival pauses. “With No-Majs it’s difficult. We can’t interact with them unless necessary, and friendships or relationships between wizards and No-Majs are banned.”

“What happens  if-“ Credence stops, obviously unsure of how he can phrase his question.

“If someone falls in love?” Percival’s voice is a disturbing mix between bitter and amused.

Credence just nods.

“They have to get over it. If they do pursue a relationship and the MACUSA finds out, the No-Maj gets obliviated – their memory is wiped, and the wizard is punished depending on the level of risk of exposure of the magical community he presented.”

Percival can see how the panic rises in Credence’s eyes, the photograph in his hands forgotten. At least that does wonders to dampen the arousal still flooding through Percival’s body.

“Is that- will you do that to me? If I’m not- if I can’t-“ Credence stops mid-sentence, his breath coming out ragged and too quickly.

The Auror reacts quickly, makes one step towards the boy and pulls him up. One hand wanders to the back of Credence’s neck almost naturally, and Percival brings their foreheads together. “No, Credence. I promise you that. I promise.”

The younger man exhales shakily and Percival feels him press into his forehead more firmly for a moment, before he steps back and holds up the photograph again, silently accepting this promise. “Do all your photographs move?”

Percival can tell he’s trying to calm himself down again, and indulges his immense thirst for information. “Yes. Paintings, too.”

Credence nods, as if he expected that, and it makes Percival grin in amusement.

“What else is different?”

Percival thinks for a moment. “President Picquery doesn’t believe in the Prohibition, that’s why we have Gigglewater.” Personally, Graves isn’t very fond of it and prefers a good whiskey himself, but it seems like a thing Credence would find delightful in finding out about.

Turns out, he is right. “Giggle-Water?” Credence asks, one eyebrow rising in confusion. “That’s a kind of… alcohol?”

“Would you like to try?” Percival asks, sliding his wand out of his trouser pocket already. He doesn’t necessarily need it, especially not for a simple Summoning Charm, but he’s noticed Credence can’t seem to get enough of seeing it – or him with it, Percival isn’t sure which one it is.

“But it’s forbidden! Ma says-“ Credence stops himself then, and Percival watches in amazement how a very new expression enters the young man’s face. There’s steel in his eyes now, only the tiniest hint, but it’s there. “Yes, please. I’d like to try,” he says, and Percival feels his want rising again at that tiniest of seeds of rebellion. There’s steel in Credence. He’s not broken, like it seemed initially.

They make their way to the kitchen, the wizard redirecting his sofa to position itself in front of the open balcony doors where a soft, sweet early summer breeze is coming in. He gestures for Credence to sit down and follows suit, summoning the bottle of Gigglewater he keeps stashed for rare visits from Seraphina and two shot glasses.

Years of practice and experience allow Percival to stop himself from laughing out loud after downing one of the glasses, the most common side effect of the beverage. However, his poor Credence following suit has no idea what hits him when he laughs out uncontrollably and flushes a deep red immediately afterwards. He’s staring at his glass in horror.

“Magic!” Percival announces drily, but with a prominent grin on his face and waves his hands about, conjuring up a few sparks.

Credence stares at him for a few seconds, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then he’s laughing so hard and loud Percival casts a second Muffliato Charm over the open balcony doors. Laughing, Credence is a different kind of beautiful. When he’s serious, his face is all delicate features, his nose and cheekbones so straight Percival often thinks it’s a wonder Mary Lou doesn’t cut herself when she punishes her foster son.

When Credence is laughing, he looks grown up, carefree. But he laughs freely, like a child. Loud, too loud even, gleeful but unpractised even in something as trivial as laughter.

“Show me more, please!” Credence commands him, face flushed from laughter now, too exhilarated to be mortified by the fact he didn’t just ask politely.

Percival obliges easily, muttering “ _Herbifors_!” to produce a bouquet of delicate azaleas out of thin air like a cheap conjurer trick. Credence takes them in both hands carefully and inhales their scent, still smiling broadly. He clutches them to his chest while Percival goes on.

Soon there are a number of rabbits hopping through the apartment, some pebbles that Percival floated in from the streets are now puppies and his teapot has turned into a tortoise. They’re surrounded by floating household utensils, quills, books and papers and although keeping up the numerous spells requires talent, Percival holds them effortlessly.

Credence’s eyes are open wide, taking in every single bit of magic he witnesses. Percival feels obliged to tell him: “This is not usually what I do in my line of work. Offensive and defensive magic isn’t as... _pretty_ to watch as this.” Part of Percival wants Credence to see what he really can do, how impressive he is on the battlefield. How he wields destruction spells that take out multiple enemies at once, how his shields are stronger and last longer than those of other wizards. He wants Credence to marvel at his skill.

But he also wants to keep him safe, and prays that Credence never ever has to witness him in combat.

The young man still looks at him like he’s hung the sun, moon and stars. “I understand, Mr. Graves. But this – it’s wonderful.” He smells the tiny bunch of azaleas again.

Percival lets go of several spells then, vanishes the small menagerie that hopefully kept their bowels controlled and lets the debris-like field of various floating items put themselves away to their rightful places again. Then he grabs two more glasses of Gigglewater and this time, Credence downs his fully expecting, anticipating, what’s coming.

oOo

 Credence feel s light-headed, his mind is swirling with magic, alcohol and first and foremost the man opposite of him.

The late afternoon dips the sofa and rest of the apartment in gold, Mr. Graves’ eyes are pools of liquid night against skin that looks just the right amount of roughness that Credence wants to rub his cheek against it and feel it on his skin.

There’s heat pooling low in his stomach, and Mr. Graves’ is watching him, his wand still resting loosely in his hand that lies between them.

And Credence lets go, follows the impulse that’s been burning inside him for so long now. He almost crashes his face into Mr. Graves’ as his lips find those of the older man. Credence doesn’t know how to kiss, like he didn’t know how to hug. But it doesn’t matter. He can feel Mr. Graves’ lips against his, can feel how soft they are, their warmth. His eyes are shut tightly, his nose pressing into the other man’s face and it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever felt.

Then Mr. Graves growls low in his throat and moves his lips against Credence’s and Credence corrects himself immediately because _that_ has to be the most glorious thing he’s ever felt.

He feels Mr. Graves’ hand on his face now, a rough thumb caressing his cheek, the rest of his hand resting warmly against Credence’s side of the head, fingers hidden in mussed up hair. And then Mr. Graves’ draws back enough to whisper Credence’s name against his lips, and he whispers more, he whispers – “stop.”

Credence is too drunk on the things he’s feeling to be truly hurt. Instead, he places his own hand over Mr. Graves’ hand on his face and whines: “Why?”, trying to push closer again.

“My beautiful boy, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Mr. Graves rasps out, voice an octave lower than usual. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“I want you, Mr. Graves,” Credence replies huskily, his voice dripping with need.

The older wizard barks out a laugh and tightens the grip in Credence’s hair for a moment, betraying his own want. “Credence, you won’t even use my first name, yet you want something from me that I can’t give you.”

“Percival, please,” Credence begs instantly, shamelessly, his want erasing the usual reverence with which he addresses the man he adores so much. It’s manipulative to a degree, but Credence doesn’t realise or care because at his words, Mr. Graves groans and Credence uses the chance to press in again, feel the wizard’s lips on his.

This time, Mr. Graves gives in and Credence’s eyes fly open when he’s being kissed back properly. Mr. Graves flicks out his tongue and Credence gasps into the kiss, allowing the older man to capture his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down slightly.

Credence whimpers again, longing to taste, too and when he carefully licks Mr. Graves’ lips and the older man opens his mouth to grant him access, he melts into the kiss with his whole body, one of his hands sneaking up to tentatively rest on Mr. Graves’ neck.

When Mr. Graves pulls back this time, his face is flushed and it makes Credence want him more, but also induces a light moment where he realises what exactly it is they’ve been doing. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Mr. Graves’ wipes away tears from his cheeks.

“Are you alright, Credence?”

He nods shakily, the want shrinking down to an ever-present simmer, while he clumsily tries to find the words he needs to say. To make Mr. Graves understand. “I’m- I have never-“ He exhales, then whispers: “I wanted you to kiss me. First.”

That was wrong, the meaning was wrong, Credence realises, but amazingly, Mr. Graves understands him nonetheless. “I was your first kiss.”

Credence flushes. “Yes.”

 “Credence…” Mr. Graves whispers and presses a kiss against his forehead, pulling him close until Credence is buried against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. “I can’t be what you think you want me to be.”

“You’re everything,” Credence tells him, heartfelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower language: AZALEA - Take Care of Yourself for Me, Fragile Passion, (Temperance)


	4. Bein' good isn't always easy, no matter how hard I try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: explicit grown up activities. (Not taxes, no.) Also, I kinda hurt Credence quite badly, so if you're squeamish about sort-of detailed descriptions of punishment wounds, be careful please.

**June**

“Your coffee, Mr. Graves,” Queenie Goldstein says sweetly and hovers a cup with a saucer from her tray.

Percival startles inwardly and checks his mental barriers. They’re strong as ever.

The younger Goldstein sister gives him a dazzling smile. “You’ve been making eyes at Madame Picquery’s cup for five minutes now.” _No mind-reading involved_ , she doesn’t say.

She’s not registered as a Legilimens, and Percival as Head of Magical Law Enforcement should be bothered. But Percival as mentor and, he worms his way around the word, _friend_ to Tina Goldstein isn’t bothered. Queenie is one of the few truly good people he has ever encountered. And besides, sometimes Tina comes to him with clues about things she can’t possibly know about without Legilimency – and Percival knows for a fact the older Goldstein sister is a hopeless case in that respect.

Besides, Queenie’s coffee is always perfect. So are the treats she bakes that Tina brings to work regularly and shares with her boss.

He thinks that Credence would be delighted to see this side of magic, the one Queenie lives and represents so effortlessly. If the kitchen was a battlefield, she’d be more accomplished than Graves. But then again, her never-ending mind-reading would probably scare Credence, who’s even more afraid of his own thoughts than of those of others.

Percival focuses back on the meeting that is currently coming to an end. Most of the other people are standing up and gathering their things, but Seraphina gives him a look indicating to stay, so he remains seated. When Tina next to him moves to get up, too, he silently gestures for her to stay, too.

“Tini, don’t be ridiculous, it’s not about the Stickfast Hex,” he hears Queenie whisper to her sister as she leaves the room with her tray.

“Percival,” Seraphina pipes up immediately when the door closes behind Queenie, ”I want news on the magical explosions. Tell me what you think.” As opposed to the official statement of ‘we don’t know so fuck off and let us do our work until we do’ he made in slightly more polite terms half an hour earlier.

He nods at Tina, who straightens slightly in her chair when addressing the President. “I checked the birth register and all corresponding alibis – they’re watertight. Could be a No-Maj-born child manifesting, but I’ve contacted the deputy headmistress of Ilvermorny. Their No-Maj-born magic manifestation register doesn’t match up with the explosions either.”

“So we can definitely rule out a child.” Seraphina sighs. “Grindelwald?”

Percival shakes his head. “Unlikely. Neither he nor his followers have admitted to be responsible for the attacks. And there still haven’t been casualties.”

“So we know all the things that are _not_ causing these explosions,” the President observes, not at all amused. “Is there anything we do know?”

“Whatever it is, it can move invisibly if it wants to, but when it appears, it’s akin to a wizard apparating, accompanied by incredible dark magical force. While it destroys anything in its way, it seems to focus on its targets once it’s reached them,” Percival sums up. “I’d say it’s at least rudimentary sentient.”

Seraphina raises her eyebrows. “So, a beast?”

Percival isn’t happy with that answer, not by far. Of course it might be a beast, but there’s something not quite adding up. A thought dances at the back of his head, but the more he’s trying to recall it, the more it slips away. “It’s my best guess so far.”

And if someone hates guesses more than Seraphina, it’s Percival.

oOo

They don’t kiss properly after the afternoon in May, Mr. Graves is restraining them both. Credence misses it, but occasionally, the older man presses a small kiss against his forehead which makes up for a lot.

And besides, Credence is certain that the things Mr. Graves says and does, he does for a reason. He doesn’t want to cause his saviour any problems, so he admires him silently, and dreams about that magical May kiss.

They have long conversations on the times Mr. Graves can get away from work for more than a break and Credence won’t missed for a couple of hours. Neither of the men are particularly chatty normally, especially not Credence, who is still afraid a wrong word will destroy everything he feels good about in his life right now. But with each other, somehow it gets easier.

Mr. Graves lets him read, too, books other than the Bible, that is. Credence soon discovers his love for Mary Shelley, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters and while Mr. Graves smirks at the fervour with which he goes through Frankenstein and  Jane Eyre, the next time Credence sets foot in the apartment, a complete collection of all the books by his favourite No-Maj authors waits for him.

He goes through magical books with the same enthusiasm, not caring about how they describe wand movements he can’t copy. He reads the first three volumes of Chadwick’s Charms, books about Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts and leafs through spellbooks.

Credence does his very best not to come home elated from meetings with Mr. Graves, but the knowledge that the man promised to always be there for him eases up the knot in his stomach, straightens his shoulders a bit and makes him live through punishments in silence, the only sound being his tears falling on the wooden floor.

oOo

**July**

He’s fighting with Tina again. The problem is that he knows she’s right, but he is wise enough to understand that what she asks of him now – acting now – would destroy everything.

Mary Lou Barebone is holding assembly after assembly, preaching to people on the street, filling heads sluggish from the summer heat with even more heated images of pyres and burning witches. Her religious fever is spreading like an infection.

She’s charismatic if she wants to be, and it makes the bile rise in Percival as well as in Tina. But they can’t act now, not with Grindelwald wreaking havoc in Europe and the magical explosions – gas leaks to the No-Majs – shake New York more and more often.

The boy – that’s what Tina calls him, and Percival has a hard time not calling him Credence, even though they both read the files on him and Tina would understand who he’s referring to – is suffering more under his mother’s abuse now than ever.

Percival knows it’s partly because the weekly meetings with Credence leave the boy happy and elated even when he has to return to the Salemer’s lair. Mary Lou despises the hope she can somehow sense in her son, despises the fact that he won’t break, no matter how hard she tries. She _almost_ had him lulled and beaten into complacency about the abuse, _almost_ had him down on his knees. But then Percival happened, and now Credence is stronger after every beating, grows more defiant with every whip.

He hurts, cries and suffers under the words and beatings, but Percival promised to be there to catch him, and has done so without fail.

So of course, Mary Lou tries harder.

And Percival wants to take his Credence away, wants to be the knight in robes Credence makes him out to be. But he can’t, because he still doesn’t understand Credence’s power, he still can’t be sure his interest is justified. Justified beyond the alarming fact that he cares about the young man deeply. Justified _magically_. If Percival tries to act against Mary Lou now, he’ll be found guilty of treason.

The MACUSA would discover everything he’s told Credence, and not even his friendship to Seraphina could redeem him now. Percival Graves would be sentenced to death.

“What we’re doing is cowardly,” Tina almost shouts, tears in her eyes and voice tight with desperation. “We’re just watching! We need to act!”

Percival dismisses her with ice in his voice and she retreats with a hurt look. His coffee tastes like vinegar the whole week after that incident.

The worst part is that she’s right though. At night, when Percival has finally time to think about himself and not work, he suffers the most, furious at himself. Because if he’s really honest with himself, he is being a coward.

He could whisk Credence away. They could run, and with a touch of luck and his excessive talent, they’d be off the radar permanently. Credence could be free, even in hiding.

But Percival doesn’t want to risk his job, his life. In his perfect world, he can have both – Credence free, happy and _by his side_ , along with his job. And to have both, Credence will have to suffer the abuse for just a little while longer. Percival will gladly heal him again and again – and resolutely pushes away the thought that there might come a time when there will be nothing left to heal. When he’ll be too late.

oOo

**August**

Any plan Percival might have made for his meeting with Credence puff into nothingness when he sees the young man standing in a corner of the dark ally near the Pike Street Chapel, tears streaming down his face and his hands twisting a bloody rag.

“Mr. Graves,” he sobs when Percival hurries into his line of sight, “please- make it go away, _please_!”

Without a second thought, Percival winds an arm around him and they pop out of existence, retreating to safety.

He doesn’t even ask a question like ‘What’s wrong’ – it’s superfluous. Credence’s whole _life_ is wrong, the life Percival can’t – or won’t? – rescue him from yet.

His apartment is stuffy, not even opening the balcony doors helps much. Percival could conjure up a breeze, but keeping it up is too energy consuming in this weather. But as it is, this is the only place he and Credence are absolutely safe from prying eyes and this is what he needs now the most. He can’t help the young man if they might be interrupted.

Credence must be boiling in his clothes, smells faintly of sweat and a simple, clean scent underneath that must be his soap. It’s impressive that he even managed to wash himself with the wounds his mother inflicted on him.

“Please, take off you jacket,” Percival coaxes gently, but Credence stares on the ground pointedly, pale-faced, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hands balled up in fists, the rag lost. He whimpers in the back of his throat.

Percival yanks off his own light jacket and waistcoat, closely followed by his shirt. His undershirt is clinging to him, but at least the tiniest hint of fresh air on his bare arms is welcome. Credence still makes no move to do anything, so Percival steps close and lightly takes hold of the lapels of the boy’s jacket.

“N-no!” Credence mutters coarsely, but doesn’t do anything to stop Percival. When the wizard looks down at Credence’s hands, he sees why. There’s blood dripping from his clenched fists and white fury burns in Percival when he forces himself to gently reach for Credence’s hands instead.

“Credence, please. Let me help you. Just your hands for now, okay?”

The young man makes a strangled sound, but slowly places his fists in Percival’s open palms. When he runs his thumbs over the soft skin at the wrists, the clenched fists relax a fracture, the fingers slowly unfurling like bloody flower petals. There are two snapped sinews, and one cut so deep Percival can spot a piece of bone. Silent tears fall from Credence’s eyes.

“My wonderful boy,” Percival mutters, trying to distract Credence from the fleshy mess. He uses his wand to begin the healing process because moving over raw flesh with his fingers would be torture at this stage.

The process take a good ten minutes before even the last of the blemishes is gone. Under normal circumstances, Percival would leave a couple of marks to not make Mary Lou suspicious, but seeing how Credence is suffering, some of the wizard’s rationality leaves him.

“Can I?” he asks then, carefully taking the lapels of Credence’s jacket in his hands again. The boy is still silent, but jerkily nods once.

The jacket slides off easily since Credence lets his arms hang by his side without moving. When Percival sees what he’s hiding underneath, his insides tremble with anger at Mary Lou Barebone. The white shirt is sticking to Credence’s arms, but not just with sweat. There are thin red splotches all over, clearly stemming from blood.

Percival cradles Credence’s face in his hands, gently lifting his face. Eyes brimming with tears find his. “Let me help,” he almost begs – as close as Percival Graves will ever come to begging, anyway.

“How?” Credence whispers back, his voice raw.

“Come with me.”

They make their way over to the bathroom, leaving Credence’s jacket and Percival’s clothes in the living room, where a quickly cast cleaning spell sets to work on them.

The bathroom is the coolest room in the flat, the simple white tiles emitting a clinical cold. Credence stands next to the tub and sits down gingerly on its edge when Percival gestures for him to do so. The older man wets a cloth and wipes down his own face and neck before washing it out and holding it out for Credence. He doesn’t make any move to take it. Percival has never seen the boy as tense as he is now.

He lightly wipes around Credence’s brow and neck, at least where he can reach – the waistcoat and high-collared shirt with the necktie mostly block access. When he asks Credence to open the waistcoat, he doesn’t receive an answer, but Credence moves trembling fingers towards the buttons, fighting with each and every single one. It’s almost painful to watch, but Percival doesn’t want to interrupt. Finally, the waistcoat hangs open and Credence fumbles with his necktie until it comes undone, too. It hangs around his neck like the remains of a noose.

Percival uses his wand to slide the waistcoat and tie off, then wipes away the sweat around Credence’s neck, too.

The shirt Credence is wearing is too big on him, clearly it once belonged to a much broader man. It falls open around his chest now that the waistcoat is gone and Percival notices in horror the red shining through the gaps in the fabric.

“Credence, look at me,” he says, waiting until the boy meets his eyes, fear clearly present in them. “Where else did your mother hurt you?”

The young Salemer shakes his head frantically, opens his mouth, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat.

Percival has seen and heard enough. He kneels down in front of Credence, takes one of his hands and brings it to his lips, pressing a firm kiss against it. Credence’s lashes flutter, and he stares at Percival like a mooncalf caught in wand light. Percival lets go of the hand then and reaches up to Credence’s shirt, pausing for a moment over the first button. “Tell me to stop.”

A single tear runs down Credence’s cheek and he shakes his head again, but this time it’s firm, decisive. _Don’t stop._

So Percival sets to work on the buttons and sweet Merlin and Morgaine know he imagined this differently, this first time of unveiling skin. When the shirt finally falls open, Credence tries to wrap his arms around his midriff self-consciously, but Percival gently pulls them down again, although he’s feeling sick at the sight. Draped all over Credence’s chest and stomach is an angrily swollen, oozing burn mark in the shape of a rosary, as if someone heated a metal rosary and then threw it on him, searing his flesh like a perverse twist on branding cows. The burn rests on a bed of old welts and cuts, some healed, others turned to knobby scars.

Percival breathes deeply, tries to will the anger down, but he hears glass breaking in the kitchen and knows he lost control. Credence startles at the sound, eyes wide. With an angry flick of his wand, Percival vanishes the shirt completely and hears the young man gasp at the sudden change. Then he exhales through his nose before rising to his feet, towering over Credence like a deity of fury wearing a white undershirt. His wand is sizzling with magic as Percival wills all his medical knowledge into the piece of magic he’s working.

His med cupboard flies open, essence of Dittany as well as various other salves and mixtures apply themselves to smaller cuts and bruises peppering Credence’s arms. Percival traces the rosary on the young man’s chest with his bare hands, completely focused on channelling the healing magic into the beaten and abused body. He doesn’t perceive Credence’s low moan, or how he pushes into the touch.

He grunts in frustration when he can’t erase the rosary completely. Although the skin is mostly healed and the pain should be gone, the imprint is still prominent on Credence’s upper body.

“Mr. Graves?” a timid voice startles him out of his anger and he blinks, looking down at Credence, who’s almost facing him, looking at him from beneath his lashes. Percival realizes Credence has reached out and is now holding onto one of his hands.

“Where else?” he grunts out, not willing to let go of his concentration.

Credence looks at him for a moment, his bottom lip quivering, and then slowly stands up and turns around. With his head hung long the once smooth expanse of his back is stretched out displaying a colourful pattern of new and old bruises and the distinct marks of a belt. Percival growls in the back of his throat and barely notices the goose bumps breaking out all over Credence’s bare skin at this sound.

He puts his hands flat on Credence’s shoulder and feels the knots there even without pressing in. He heals slowly, carefully, easing up kinks and knots and setting straight two vertebrae. Credence moans lowly when Percival’s hands and magic reach the middle of his back and Percival throws all the fucks he has left to give in the wind, pressing a kiss to Credence’s shoulder blade.

While he’s still finishing up the healing spell, Credence suddenly twists under his hands, turns around so that Percival’s arms are wrapped around him and then he just pushes in, his mouth searching for Percival’s in hungry desperation.  Credence’s hands are raking over his chest, he can feel them warm through the thin undershirt.

Percival kisses back instinctively, opening his lips in pleasant surprise when Credence licks at them.

“Please, Mr. – Percival,” Credence moans, “please.” He stops the desperate kisses for a second, but pushes his forehead against Percival’s, brushes his nose against the older man’s in an eskimo kiss and then presses his whole body flush against the wizards, grinding into the stronger form instinctively.

He’s hard, must be painfully so, and Percival growls again, this time from pleasure. Still – the boy doesn’t know what he wants, Percival shouldn’t give to him what he _thinks_ he needs. He doesn’t understand it, but Percival isn’t selfish enough to take advantage. Credence doesn’t know what he wants, he –

“Please, Percival, I want you… I need you to- to-… fuck me.” Credence’s voice is husky, and he blushes delicately. It’s obvious it’s the first time he uses this word, possibly the first time he even thinks about what he wants in these terms. The purity of it, the harsh word in Credence’s soft mouth sends another wave of heat down Percival’s body, makes him feel guilty for getting so aroused at this.

“Credence, I’m too old,” he mutters, meaning ‘I’m too corrupted for you’, ‘You’re too precious, too pure’. Meaning ‘You don’t understand how much I want you’.  He’s put a lot of effort into telling himself this, into not giving in, into restraining them both from the heat surging through their bodies since May, and even before.

And his Credence, purely, innocently blinks at him and whispers: “Does it stop- _working_ when you get older?”, running two slightly shaking fingers over the prominent bulge in Percival’s trousers.

Percival’s last bit of healing magic splutters out as he grinds into Credence’s touch, swallowing a moan from the young man’s throat as he, this time, crushes their mouths together. Credence’s careful, sweeping licks against his lips and tongue are driving Percival insane with want and he buries his hands in Credence’s hair, pulling gently.

“P-Percival, please-“ Credence gasps, pressing in even more, his hands fluttering, unsure of where he can put them. He wriggles against Percival, who understands and pushes one of his legs between Credence’s, his thigh snuck against the boy’s erection.

“Let go,” Percival commands, leaving Credence’s mouth to kiss along his jawline before biting down there gently.

Credence, always eager to please, to obey commands – and completely wrecked by the overwhelming touches anyway – lets go, moaning Percival’s name as he comes, hips stuttering against the wizard’s thigh.

He goes limp then, and Percival simply sweeps him into his arms after muttering a quick spell to get rid of the dampness in the younger man’s trousers. Credence’s head lolls against Percival’s shoulder as he’s being carried out of the bathroom and into the bedroom across the hall, and Percival can feel tiny licks against the soft skin of his neck.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and feels Credence nod lightly. But even when he gently lets him back down to stand on his own feet, Credence seems unwilling to break body contact. He’s nuzzling at Percival’s neck, once again pressing his whole body against the wizard’s, not getting enough of the touch. Percival is still hard and doesn’t mind the contact at all.

“Will you… still…” Credence asks against his neck.

“Will I fuck you?” Percival mutters back, voice gravelly.

Credence nods jerkily and Percival notices the goose bumps all over the boy’s body from the choice of words.

“What I want to do with you is more than just fucking,” Percival tells him, slowly tipping up the boy’s head so he can look at him. “You deserve so much more than just that. But I need you to be sure that’s what you want. I can’t take doing this away from you again.”

“No-one can take this away from me,” Credence replies, and his eyes are shiny again. “Please, Percival. I want you to be the one to do it.”

Three sentences, without stuttering, without panic.

It’s this moment that Percival realizes for all Credence worships the ground he walks on, the one holding all the real power his is the boy himself. If Credence begged him, he’d do almost anything. Control had been an illusion, and Percival the one hopelessly falling for it.

He kisses Credence chastely before pressing their foreheads together. “Anything I do you’re uncomfortable with, you have to tell me. Instantly. Can you do that for me, Credence?”

The boy swallows, blinking nervously. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” Percival steps back and, keeping his eyes trained on Credence, takes off his undershirt. He’s keenly aware of the eyes roaming over his chest and feels strangely _bare_ in addition to half-naked. Percival is in good shape and his chest is mostly bare from scars – his opponents don’t usually get chances to harm him permanently – but he understands Credence’s looks. Their bodies are very different, where Credence is lithe bordering on malnourished, Percival’s chest is broad, muscular, the thin patches of chest hair not as grey as parts of his head yet.

“You can touch,” he tells Credence, but the younger man makes no move. Percival realizes it’s not necessarily because of fear or respect, but because he simply doesn’t know what to do. He needs instructions, demonstrations. “Let me show you” he says instead and this time, Credence reaches out without hesitation.

Percival doesn’t take his hand, though, and instead slowly runs his own over Credence’s shoulders and down his arms where now only healed, fading scars mar the skin. Except they’re not blemishes, not really. They’re signs for Credence’s strength, of how much he has endured, and how it still hasn’t broken him.

The younger man shivers under the touch, even more so when Percival traces the faint red line of the rosary burn. He lets his head fall forward, so at first, when he speaks, Percival doesn’t even realise it.

“… Ma smelled it on me. I don’t know how she- she said she could smell a man. Cologne. She was furious. I- I cried, because we haven’t done anything wrong, right? We didn’t- … how could God hate me for being … wonderful when I’m with you? How can He hate me for- for this?” He pauses, but Percival feels pride blooming in his chest at how strong Credence is. He’s not sobbing anymore, the seed of steel is back in his spine, making him raise his head until the boy can look straight into Percival’s eyes. “She burnt me so I wouldn’t- so no one would like me. So they’d see I’m a- a freak.”

“I don’t know about your God,” Percival admits freely, “but fuck Him if He thinks there’s anything wrong with you.”

Credence’s eyes go wide at the casual blasphemy. “Don’t… please don’t say that.”

The wizard presses a kiss to his lips, realising his mistake. “Apologies for insulting your faith, that was wrong of me. I stand corrected: your mother can go fuck herself. There’s nothing wrong with _us_.” People like Credence, and Percival. Magical people. Two men, together. Two men with an age gap that certainly will make people turn their heads if they knew, because people are like that.

If it’s even possible, Credence’s eyes widen even more. But this time, he just kisses Percival back and gently places two trembling hands on his chest. Percival lets him, relaxes into the touch. It’s thrilling, feeling Credence’s insecurity in every move. The way his hands dance over hot skin, as if he’s worried Percival will disappear if he touches him too firmly. The way he avoids sensitive nipples, or the thin patch of hair disappearing in Percival’s trousers.

Percival decides to show him, then, and distracts him with a kiss while letting his hands roam over Credence’s chest again. Credence’s own hands have come to an abrupt halt at the kiss, he’s unable to concentrate on more than one thing at the same time, his body and brain overloading at the attention. It’s endearing how simple touches throw him for a loop, but it also challenges Percival with promises of doing a million things, feeling Credence like this again and again, until he knows every secret, has felt everything Percival is capable of giving him.

When the older man thumbs over one of Credence’s nipples, the boy goes stiff for a second and then bites down on Percival’s lips hard. Percival moans lowly and Credence takes his chance to slip his tongue into Percival’s mouth, the kiss getting sloppier with every brush of Percival’s hand over the sensitive nub.

Suddenly, Percival feels hands ghosting down his ribs and then deft fingers dip behind the waistband of his trousers for a split second. He bucks forward and grabs Credence’s neck with one hand, breaking their kiss so he can stare into the young man’s lust-blown eyes, both of them panting hard.

A small, far-away part of his brain worries that the touch might be too rough for Credence and he forces himself to loosen his grip slightly. Credence, however, isn’t happy with this decision. “No, please! I- I like it. When you do it.”

And Percival would never have thought he’d enjoy the thought of rough-handling someone – not being careful because none of his past lovers were as delicate as Credence was is a different story – but the thought of having the explicit invitation and acceptance to leave his mark upon a beaten body by the very person suffering abuse on a daily basis is intoxicating to him. He silently vows to make his bruises marks of adoration, of cherishing.

He’s turned on so much by the thought that he tightens his grips and Credence rewards him with a loud moan and demanding kisses along his jawline. Then the thin fingers dip below Percival’s waistline again and he remembers why he stopped and grabbed Credence’s neck initially.

“Do you want me to take them off?” he asks, placing his free hand possessively on Credence’s hip and stroking there lightly. Credence, as always when given an option is entirely unsure of how to respond, too scared to say a wrong thing, too unused to being asked for his opinion – but this is not a decision Percival can take from him.

Finally, Credence bites his lips and nods. “I want to see you,” he whispers, not quite stammering, but still blushing at his request.

Percival kisses him again before taking a step back. He keeps his eyes trained on Credence while he slowly reaches for his belt and unbuckles it. He grows furious at Mary Lou for the small whimper that escapes Credence when he hears the typical sound of a belt being unbuckled, but carefully keeps his anger contained, never breaking eye contact. Then he pops open the button of his trousers and pulls down the fly, sighing in relief when the pressure of the fabric loosens on his cock but at the same time missing the friction. He pulls down his trousers and underwear simultaneously and then vanishes the whole bundle, complete with shoes and socks.

Credence won’t drop his gaze, face bright red.

“Usually, people ask about my tattoo down there,” Percival teases and laughs when Credence’s gaze drops instinctively, only to shoot back up immediately, his blush even intensified when he finds that Percival has tricked him.

“I’m sorry, my darling boy, but your blush is driving me crazy,” Percival admits and reaches out, cradling Credence’s face in both hands. “I wonder how you’d blush if you knew what I want to do with you.”

The blush, predictably, spreads further and Credence’s panting betrays how aroused he is at Percival’s words. Percival isn’t usually one for talking a lot in the bedroom, but one thing that was obvious to him since his first meeting with Credence is how hungrily the boy sucks in compliments, even though he’s unused to receiving them.

“I can show you, Credence. Will you let me? Lie down with me?” Percival offers then, between kisses to the younger man’s jawline, temple and ear.

Credence’s reply is a breathy “yes”, before his hands move towards his own belt. He hesitates only for a short moment, then fumbles it open. His trousers slip down by themselves and after meeting Credence’s eyes for a second, Percival vanishes the rest of the clothes, too.

Percival mirrors Credence from before, not looking at the nude young man in front of him. Instead, he gets comfortable on his mattress, sitting up against the headboard with one leg stretched out and one propped up. His cock is resting warmly against his stomach.

Now, finally, he allows himself to look at Credence, who stands half-turned, apparently indecisive. His body is exquisite from Percival’s point of view, sensuously long, his pale skin only adding to the allure. Credence’s cock is hard and leaking precum, longer and thinner than Percival’s, and the wizard decides that if Credence is up for it, he will definitely take him, ride him until Percival sees stars and Credence comes, sobbing, blindly grasping at the older man. He imagines coming all over Credence’s chest, rubbing it into the marks of the rosary, the exact thing the mark is supposed to ward off.

Percival has started to touch himself following this track of thoughts, but doesn’t stop when he realizes this time Credence _is_ looking, eyes transfixed on the movement of Percival’s own hand on his cock.

“Have you done this before, Credence?” he asks, voice rough. He’s moving slowly now, not trying to finish any time soon but enjoying the feeling of having the young man watch him.

Credence nods and licks his lips, then tears his eyes from Percival’s erection and looks at his own hands. “Ma goes after my hands if she… thinks I have-“ he stops himself.

“Get your hands here,” Percival says softly, watching in astonishment how Credence doesn’t hesitate and carefully climbs on the bed and crawls close. The older man slides down a bit until Credence can stretch out on his back and Percival leans over him, pressing into his side.

He nuzzles Credence’s neck and when he finds the perfect spot, he bites down before worrying the silky skin between his teeth. Credence bucks underneath him and his hands flutter – until they suddenly end up on Percival’s cock, who feels as being run through by No-Maj electricity.

“Fuck,” he groans, more to himself than because he actually means to and Credence furrows his eyebrows. Percival quickly adds a “keep going”, and now Credence grins hesitantly before peeking down to where his hands are occupied.

He uses one hand to caress Percival’s balls, and the other one is stroking languidly up and down Percival’s cock. The touch is lighter than Percival is used to, but every time Credence reaches the tip he spreads the precum that’s gathered there, driving Percival mad with want.

Percival lets his head fall back, simply enjoying the touch, his body melting under Credence’s attention. The boy gathers some courage after a moment and lets one hand roam over Percival’s chest. “You’re- beautiful,” he whispers, mirroring Percival’s compliment before, but the older man realizes Credence means it exactly as he says it. A blush is rising in Percival’s cheeks then and he’s fucking gone for the boy. He’d pave the floor beneath his feet with gold, he’d do _anything_.

_I need you to fuck me_ , Credence’s voice echoes through his mind. It snaps Percival back into coherent thought at least partially.

“Credence,” he says, which the boy takes as an encouragement to twist his wrist a bit and make Percival forget his own name for a second.

“Credence,” he repeats and this time simply pushes up against the boy’s touch and is back on top in an instant, holding himself up over the thin body and pressing a kiss to Credence’s temple. “I need to prepare you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters and lets one hand roam over Credence’s thigh from the outside to the inside, where the skin is even softer. His knuckles brush Credence’s balls and the boy bucks up. His cock leaves a wet trail on Percival’s stomach.

Percival can’t be sure if Credence understands what he’s talking about, but this is not the time for words. He slowly dips between the legs, conjuring up a pillow under Credence’s lower back and lubricant on his own fingers. Credence’s eyes go wide and his whole body stiffens when Percival gently touches the tip of one finger to the tight ring of muscle at his ass.

“P-Percival?!” the boy half-sobs, half-moans and Percival holds his gaze, watching him intently for every small reaction as he starts massaging there. When he carefully pushes in the first finger, Credence’s back lifts off the mattress and he comes with a silent cry, thick white stripes covering his own stomach and chest.

He pants heavily and it’s almost enough to send Percival over the edge – only the thought of actually entering the beautiful mess of a boy beneath him in mere moments keeps him tethering on the edge of self-restraint.

Percival licks a broad strip of Credence’s chest clean with his tongue and takes one of the young man’s nipples in his mouth while he’s stretching him open.

Credence has returned to tightly shut eyes and blissed moans, his spent cock twitching lightly as his pleasure already starts to build up again. Percival moves the two fingers he’s got inside Credence at the moment, crooks them slightly and knows he’s hit the right spot when a desperate sob falls from Credence’s lips.

“Percival! More- please-” he begs, sobs, and opens his eyes, reaching up with his head, trying to reach any part of Percival he can. The wizard meets him halfway and Credence nuzzles into his neck, licking and biting and gasping against the older man’s throat. “Please!”

And Morgaine have mercy, Percival’s arousal rises over the top when he hears his Credence beg, imagining a thousand and one scenarios where he will listen to that sweet voice pleading with him until he’ll grant release.

With a low grunt, he removes his fingers and splays the hand over Credence’s ass cheeks, while he holds Credence’s face in the other one, thumbing over the cheekbone roughly. The position won’t be comfortable to hold for too long, most of his weight is resting on one elbow, but Merlin knows he won’t take his eyes off Credence, won’t stop making sure the boy is alright every step of the way.

When Credence feels the tip of Percival’s cock against his entrance, the panic creeps back into his eyes.

“My wonderful boy,” Percival mutters, stroking Credence’s cheeks softly, willing down the urge to rush forward, to push in and bury himself deep in the young man’s ass. “You’re so beautiful like this, open for me. A beautiful mess.”

Percival wants to ask again if Credence is sure about this, if he is alright. But Credence shivers madly at his affectionate words and then pushes down – and Percival is gone.

He pushes in until his balls hit Credence’s skin, and fuck, he’s forgotten how great this feels. How could he ever forget this?

Credence’s mouth is open in a silent ‘O’ and he stares at the ceiling, utterly blissed out, while Percival moans lowly as he moves his hips back and then pushes forward again.

“Percival, I- you-“ Credence mutters, his mouth seemingly moving on its own accord, and his hands search out Percival’s body until he rests one on Percival’s neck and one grabs his ass tightly, fingers digging in.

“Fuck, Credence, that’s it,” Percival praises him and cants his hips slightly before moving again. He hits Credence’s sweet spot then, and Credence runs the hand on Percival’s neck down his back, leaving scratches as he thrashes in pleasure.

He’s hard again, and the precum is pooling on his stomach with the mess he’s made before. In his final moment of semi-clear thinking, Percival lowers his own body down until Credence’s cock is trapped between their stomachs, sliding in the slick friction with every thrust from Percival’s hips. Credence meets his every move now – and Percival slams into him two, three times more before Credence topples over the edge again, his cock spurting between their bodies, twitching against the heated flesh.

There are tears on Credence’s cheeks and the last thing Percival hears before the contractions around his cock buried deep in Credence’s ass send him into an orgasm that hits him like a Stunning Spell is his name falling from the boy’s lips like a mantra, again and again.

oOo

Credence finally breathes more regularly again, but his heart is still galloping in his chest. He probably won’t ever get over the sensation of being in Mr. Graves’ vicinity. Especially naked. The question he wants to ask for a couple of minutes now burns on his lips, so he finally asks, timidly: “Have I- Did I do it… right?”

He remembers clawing down his lover’s back, remembers meeting thrusting hips with his own until the sensation became too much.  With panic rising, he digs his fingers into Mr. Graves’ side until the man rolls to the right with an unwilling grunt, baring his back to the young man. There are red streaks all over Mr. Graves back, all the way down to his bottom.

Credence’s fingers hover over the marks, but Mr. Graves is having none of his panic, it seems. He rolls back, takes Credence’s face in his hands.

“You did wonderful, Credence,” he tells him, and Credence exhales shakily. “There’s no right or wrong here. We do what feels good.”

Well, Credence can certainly do that. He leans in and brushes a kiss against his lover’s lips. Then he realizes what he’s been calling Mr. Graves twice now – and pride blooms in his chest. They’re lovers now. He and Mr. Graves.

“Credence?” the older man asks, searching his face for a clue of what he’s been thinking about.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” Credence says, heartfelt, and watches in confusion how the man next to him laughs out loudly.

“Two things,” the wizard tells him, half grinning, “first: I think at least when we’re naked, you should use my first name. I don’t particularly feel like ‘Mr. Graves’ at the moment.”

He waits for Credence to nod, who does so and can feel a blush rise in the tip of his ears.

“Second, you don’t need to thank me for what we just did. For a lot of reasons, actually, but the first and foremost being that it makes me feel like a lusty old man taking advantage.” The words could be serious if they wouldn’t be accompanied by a twinkle in Mr. Graves- _Percival’s_ eyes, Credence corrects himself, glancing over their naked forms quickly.

And then he realizes the implications of what his lover just said. _When_ we’re naked.

“You would, um… we could do this-“ Credence gestures between them vaguely, “-again?”

Percival places a hand on his hip and runs his thumb over the bone that is jutting out there. Credence breaks out in goose bumps, partly due to the touch, but also because he still can’t fathom what makes a man like Percival touch him this freely, treat him like he’s precious, or special.

“Do you want to?” Percival asks, and Credence relishes the attention the older man gives him, always looking at his face to find the emotions and words Credence himself has trouble to express. It makes him less self-conscious about talking.

“Y-yes.” That answer really is a no-brainer, even though Credence’s tongue still stumbles over it. Not because of insecurity – but because of excitement.

Percival reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away that’s plastered to Credence’s forehead. The horses in Credence’s heart crash and tumble all over the place. The gesture is so intimate, so caring, that he can feel tears rising to his eyes again, and he doesn’t want to cry, not because of this, not again. There have been so many tears today already.

“How do you feel?” Percival inquires, not missing how shiny his young lover’s eyes are threatening to get again.

Credence has to think about it, actually, which serves well to distract him from the hammering beat of his own heart and the surge of emotion. He feels… well, his ass feels weird. Not painful, really, but unused to the sensation he’s experienced. He feels giddy, excited and slightly terrified about everything he’s feeling, but these are the emotions he always connects to spending time with Percival. And he feels at peace, because he’s done something right. He’s done something with Percival that is so special that Credence will treasure the memory until the end of his life.

“I feel… free.” He settles on that and realizes Percival waits patiently for him to elaborate. It’s another thing he feels blessed about – the patience the wizard, who’s most likely not used to have to wait for anything or be patient with anyone, shows him. “Ma was always so scared of me doing… what we did. And now I have, even though she tried to- to make you not want to, with me. She can’t take it away from me now.”

Credence huffs at his own inadequate explanation, but knows Percival understands when the wizard runs his hand over the faint red rosary mark.

They lie in silence after that, Credence burying himself into Percival’s chest even though the temperature is still way too high. The older man doesn’t seem to mind and just holds him, slowly stroking the nape of his neck.

The sun sets outside, turning the walls of the bedroom orange and gold.

“Stay,” Percival says. Credence nods silently.


	5. The look that was in his eyes

**September**

“I’ll take you away. At the end of the year. If you want me to,” Mr. Graves says, in a semi-dark alley, sounding like he's trying to convince himself as much as he is promising it to Credence.

“We’ll go to Europe, take a ship,” he says, when they sit in his apartment on the sofa, and Credence is halfway through _Frankenstein_.

“I’ll teach you what I can, and if Seraphina wants back her best Auror, she’ll better let me take the fight to the Second Salemers,” he says, pacing the floor of his apartment while Credence holds another bunch of azaleas close to his heart.

“Be strong for me, my beautiful boy,” Mr. Graves asks of him, and Credence wants to be, with all his heart.

He understands they have to be careful. Mr. Graves has kept up a Notice-Me-Not Charm over the whole of Credence’s body for almost two weeks after he’s healed him in August and it has taken a lot out of him to do it over the distance, even if he claims he’s fine.

If waiting another three months means he’ll be free to go with Mr. Graves, to be wherever the older man will take them, to be with him – to be _wanted_ , then Credence is willing to wait.

“Can I- is there something I can do to help you?” he offers timidly, knowing Mr. Graves is stressed about something to do with the gas leaks that are not gas leaks.

Mr. Graves says no, there isn’t, but he presses a kiss against his forehead and pulls him close on the sofa. Credence leans back into his chest and after a moment, he starts to read to him. Over time, his voice gains confidence, and he keeps reading after Mr. Graves has clearly nodded off, relishing the thought that there is this insanely powerful man that trusts Credence enough to fall asleep with only Credence to keep watch, even if it’s just within the privacy of the apartment.

Credence’s heart beats fast with pride and joy.

oOo

**October**

He’s having trouble sleeping for weeks now and it leaves him scatter-brained. His nights are restless and even though he can’t remember his dreams – or even falling asleep, for that matter – he feels uneasy about them.

Ma is on edge too, more so than usual. She thinks the gas leaks are not gas leaks at all but caused by witchcraft. Credence, of course, knows she’s right, and finds himself pitying her religious fervor. Of course she still terrifies him, he lies in bed crying himself to sleep when she’s been punishing him for the one or the other thing again.

Modesty feels it too, the terror in him that rises whenever Ma gives him that _look_. The look that says he has messed up again. Sometimes he thinks he can see a touch of the defiance in Modesty that Mr. Graves has awoken in him. When Ma makes her cry, he tries to comfort her as best as he can, clumsy words and touches in the middle of the night.

They pray, every evening, for hours, until Credence’s knees are raw. It’s important now more than ever, Ma tells them. The witchcraft is lurking everywhere, they need to prepare their souls as well as ready a following big enough to rally against the witches, should they reveal themselves.

Credence wants nothing more than to tell her that he will be one of them, one of the witches she’s so afraid of. _Wizard, really_ , a voice sounding suspiciously like Mr. Graves corrects in his head. Credence dreams about Mr. Graves finally taking him away, wishes for real power, power to whisk away his little sister, to free himself of Mary Lou Barebone and the Second Salemers.

He asks Mr. Graves more and more about the wizarding community, spends hours marveling at the older man, is grateful for every healed cut and bruise. But he doesn’t mention the sleepless nights, because they don’t really hurt him physically, and it’s nothing to bother Mr. Graves with, who looks like he’s pulling all-nighters, too.

Yet the older man is kind, and patient. Presses kisses to Credence’s forehead. And never expects more than Credence can give. In the bleak autumn days and nights, they are what keeps each other going.

oOo

**29 th November **

Percival opens the door to his apartment and feels the hair on his arms stand on end. He’s not quite sure what’s setting him off like that, but over the years he’s learned to trust his gut instinct. His wand slips into his hand naturally and he silently prowls forward, trying to get a feel for whatever is wrong.

There’s a person sitting in his armchair, by the fireplace, looking for all the world like he’s a regular houseguest. Even without the blond hair and different coloured eyes, the fact that the stranger hasn’t set off the various wards and Caterwauling Charms tells Percival everything he needs to know.

He’s not arrogant enough to belief Grindelwald is here to have a chat, so he whips his wand, concentrating on a Legilimency Spell. Grindelwald is an accomplished silent and wandless caster, the smartest move would be to break his mind before he can even begin to cast.

However, his mental barrier is quite solid. He tsk-s while Percival instantly throws a Stunning Spell, all the while keeping up the attack on the Occlumency barrier in the European wizard’s mind. This time, Grindelwald whips out a wand to defend himself and jumps up from the chair.

“Mr. Graves, don’t be the brute the stereotype makes you Americans out to be,” he admonishes and throws a spell right back, easily parried by Percival. The Auror notes that parrying the dark wizard’s spells is not the problem – the problem is the force that’s behind every attack. Percival feels the repercussion of the simple Stunning Spell he parried vibrating through his arm, leaving a numb feeling behind. It’s like blocking a broadsword with a kitchen knife.

Nevertheless, he keeps his head clear, focusing a part of his mind on the Legilimency attack while duelling through his living room. The spells, hexes and jinxes fly between the two wizards, leaving the furniture and decorations in ruins. Thanks to the silencing charms, none of Percival’s neighbours is alarmed though.

Percival’s magic is precise, powerful and relentless. He doesn’t tire throwing spell after spell and he’s out to maim Grindelwald. In a duel like this there is no room for mercy. Shy from the Killing Curse, which neither of them is using, the jinxes and hexes get more terrifying by the second. The Auror parries spell after spell, but so does Grindelwald, the air cackling with magical power. They are two storms colliding, Percival’s measured, powerful attacks against Grindelwald’s overcharged unpredictability.

Percival tries disapparating to the MACUSA for support at some point, but grudgingly realizes Grindelwald cast an Anti-Apparition-Charm over his flat he doesn’t have the focus to crack at the moment. Soon enough, both wizards are panting heavily, sporting cuts and bruises, bleeding on the floor. Percival’s wand arm is numb by now and he’s limping from a particularly cruel Reductor Curse that splintered the bones in his right leg.

Grindelwald, too, is in bad shape, his left shoulder and half of his chest bare, burned by a snaking pattern of lightning that Percival put all his force behind. It’s his specialty; he uses a variation of the Summoning Charm to summon the electricity from the No-Maj constructions around them and redirects it as lightning to hit a target.

The spell leaves the air bristling with electricity and Percival tightens the grip around his wand, willing his numb fingers to obey. With a flick of his wand he blasts open the faucet in the kitchen and yanks the stream of water through the room, where it charges itself in the air, becoming a conductor for the remaining electricity and when he crashes the stream of charged water on Grindelwald, he watches in satisfaction how the man twitches as he’s being shocked again, uncontrollable cramps shaking him – and the grip around his wand loosens.

Percival sees his chance. With a grunt he forces himself forward, pushing both his mind and his body to their limits as he tries to break through Grindelwald’s weakened mental barrier while landing a good punch in the wizard’s face.

He realizes too late Grindelwald is not going to actually drop his wand. Percival, distantly, in a strange out-of-body experience, watches how Grindelwald’s wand hardens and starts to glisten like metal and how he yanks it upward – and buries it deep in Percival’s side.

This, effectively, pulls Percival back into his body and the last thing he feels is something like an explosion ripping through his inside before everything goes black.

oOo

When Percival comes to it again, he’s bound, gagged and shirtless, tied like a pig for a roast and down on his knees. Grindelwald seems to have fixed most of the apartment and is back in the armchair, although he looks mighty battered. He’s turning his wand in his hands.

It’s wooden again, but glistening darkly with Percival’s blood.

“Mr. Graves, I have to say, I’m impressed,” Grindelwald tells him, not looking up from his wand, not acknowledging his consciousness with eye contact. “I was told you’re a capable wizard, but that Lightening Spell? Your own invention, I presume.”

Percival, usually not one for crude gestures, wants to spit in his face. Instead, he tries his best to focus his thoughts in a silent cry to Queenie Goldstein, the strongest Legilimens he knows. He’s not even sure if it would work under normal circumstances, seeing as half a city is in between them, but he also finds Grindelwald is surrounding his mind with a blockage that’s impossible to tear through.

“It’s nothing personal, you see,” Grindelwald ventures on, as if he can’t feel Percival’s mind struggling. “I’m looking for something here. Something I found through a vision. Dealt with one of them before, but that didn’t turn out too well, if I’m being honest with you. Anyway, when I walk this city, I want to do it in style – and you’ve got it. You’re also the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, of course.” While he speaks he directs his bloody wand towards the hallway and Percival watches how a selection of clothes comes floating in.

Grindelwald inspects them, one by one, and heals his own wounds casually while doing so. Then he uses a Switch to dress up in one of Percival’s trousers, shirts and waistcoats. Last but not least, he picks up the monochrome coat that is Percival’s personal pride, a gift from Seraphina. He must’ve taken it off Percival while the Auror was out, and it’s currently mending and cleaning itself.

Percival, gagged, thinks hateful thoughts.

But the worst part is not Grindelwald in his clothes. It’s the ease with which the other wizard moves his wand over himself from head to toe and simply transfigures himself in front of Percival’s eyes without breaking a sweat. His hair darkens, the eyebrows become more prominent. The small beard falls out, leaving behind slightly tanned skin as opposed to the unhealthy yellowish white of Grindelwald’s natural features.

Finally, Percival looks himself – no, an exact copy of his looks – in the eyes.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go for a stroll, break this body in. I’ll see you later,” Grindelwald tells him with a pat to his bruised cheek and disapparates with a quiet pop. Why Grindelwald keeps him alive, Percival isn’t certain. He doesn’t need him for Polyjuicing, that much is clear.

Almost instantly, though, it dawns on Percival. It must be the memories. Honest to Merlin panic rises in him as an image of Credence pops up before his inner eyes. Fuck. _Fuck_.

oOo

Percival is pale, shaking with exhaustion, but he doesn’t break the spell. Using a Pensieve or extracting and altering memories is only feasible if one is a fairly accomplished wizard – which is not Percival’s problem. Infinitely _more_ problematic is the use of this magic when the wizard is bound, gagged and wandless in addition to physically suffering multiple wounds.

But this is about Credence, who needs to be protected at all cost.

So Percival is pulling out the memory of that fateful August afternoon, extracting it from his brain in a desperate attempt to save the boy from harm. He leaves the memories of healing him – erasing Credence completely is impossible, he’s woven into almost every thought rushing through Percival’s head for the past year. There’d be permanent brain damage if Percival attempted to erase everything.

But he can do this much, save Credence this much dignity and hopefully keep him out of harm’s way. Grindelwald might keep up healing the boy if he sees it’s a regular occurrence, so as not to endanger his cover. The memory of August, though, Percival will… well, _won’t_ take to death. In fact, he’d rather die without it if it means keeping Credence safe.

But if… _if_ Percival manages to evade Grindelwald, if he manages to break free, to overpower his captor, he wants the memory back. It needs to be safe, stored far away from his mind that Grindelwald will invade sooner or later.

With a desperate grunt, he wills the magic to do his bidding, and then the memory is out, a silver sliver hovering in the air before him. Percival blinks away tears of fury and then directs the memory to the safest place he can think of. It slowly floats over to the Fiend Glass in one of the bookshelves and melts into the reflecting surface before it’s gone.

Percival is content, but not done yet. He doesn’t have enough energy to alter the memories of every kiss, of every emotion for Credence. But he can alter at least two more memories, memories that are just as important, just as valuable – and would do infinitely more damage to the whole wizarding community in the hands of Grindelwald than the relationship with Credence could.

It takes him enormous effort to duplicate two specific memories in his mind, then extracting both of them. One of them is about Seraphina, more importantly: the strong friendship that connects them. He alters the memory to his best knowledge, so the friendship turns into rivalry, the friendly quips between them are touched by sourness and the smiles turn into grimaces.

The other memory is about Tina. He erases the familiarity between them, until he’s nothing more than her harsh, arrogant boss. Channelling his last energies, he summons two glass phials and hides these fake memories behind a lose brick in the fireplace, a decoy for the dark wizard to find sooner or later. Then he waits for Grindelwald to return.

oOo

The dark wizard very quickly realizes that Percival has hidden information from his mind – and he doubles the efforts of torture to find them.

Percival’s leg is a broken, bloody mess, but it’s nothing compared to the burning on his inside from repeated use of the Cruciato Curse. Grindelwald also experiments with channelling electricity, thankful even for Percival to have invented that.

“You truly are one of the greatest duellists of our time,” Grindelwald says in awe as another bolt of lightning runs through Percival’s body, leaving him twitching on the floor. “To think of using the Muggle’s own inventions against them…”

The gag stops Percival from replying, so he just glares at Grindelwald from his one good eye. The other is swollen shut and burning on the inside. If Percival wouldn’t be busy being tortured, he’d start wondering if he will go blind on it.

Then Grindelwald murmurs something and flames pop up in his hands, winding around between his fingers and across his wrist without burning him. Fiendfyre. “Do you know there are native Muggle tribes that have a custom to hold body parts in anthills to prove their manliness? Fire ants can be quite horrible little beasts, I hear. Of course, this might be taking it a bit literal, but you’ll forgive me for the artistic freedom!”

With that, he whispers at the flame and although it’s not sentient, it seems to listen to him. Dark magic seeking out the most powerful dark magician, it seems. The flames zip over to Percival and where they touch his shoulder, they spread out, in hundreds and thousands tiny spots, ants crawling over his chest, down, across his stomach, leaving nothing but sizzling flesh and searing pain in their wake.

Percival’s mind is burning like his flesh and he screams around the gag, whipping his head towards the fireplace and the lose brick.

Grindelwald wears a superior grin when he finds the two phials with memories, uncorks them and adds them to his mind. He closes his eyes – well, Percival’s eyes – to review them, and when he blinks them open, they’re triumphant. He imitates taking a bow, Percival’s wand clutched in his hand, and says “thank you” before disapparating again.

 _Hope you choke to death on them,_ Percival thinks before he loses consciousness.

oOo

He loses track of the exact date and time, but it doesn’t bode well that Grindelwald comes and goes as he pleases, and days pass.

oOo

**December**

Something is different, Credence thinks as he steals a glance at Mr. Graves. He wasn’t sure at first, with his hands raw from yet another beating and the tears pooling in his eyes.

It’s not the way Mr. Graves is behaving – rather it’s the way he _isn’t_ behaving that’s somehow off, and panic rises in Credence when there is no explanation for it. Sometimes, if Mr. Graves has a bad day, he tells Credence about it in vague enough terms not to risk any actual work secrets to spill. Other times, he at least explains that work has put him in a foul mood.

But now he’s not ill-tempered. He’s just _hard_. Cold.

Credence isn’t sure how to react to it, keeps his head low, his fingers failing to stop shaking. Ice spreads in his body within seconds, the knot in his stomach that has shrunken so much over the past year tightens and gains prominence. If Mr. Graves isn’t saying anything – maybe it means nothing on the outside is the problem. Maybe _Credence_ is the problem.

“I’ve had a vision, my boy,” the wizard tells him, tapping his foot once, almost impatiently, before grabbing Credence by the upper arms, making him focus and look up.

“A- a vision?”

“Yes. I know what is causing these ‘gas leaks’. It’s magic, strong magic, manifesting in a child close to your mother, Credence.”

“I don’t… understand,” Credence mutters, doing his very best to follow the wizard’s words. Mr. Graves never mentioned visions before, but there is so much Credence doesn’t know about the wizarding world. Visions might be a thing everybody has twice a day, for all he knows.

“I want you to find the child I’m looking for. It can’t be older than 10, 11 years old. It’s special, you’ll feel it when it uses magic. I need you to find it, and bring it to me, understood?” Mr. Graves orders.

Credence can’t do anything but nod. Mr. Graves seems to be entirely serious about this, more serious than he’s ever been. There’s a glint in his eyes Credence lacks the vocabulary to describe as anything but manic.

And if Credence can help… well, maybe Mr. Graves will relax again, maybe he’ll forgive Credence for whatever it is he’s done wrong.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” he promises, searching Mr. Graves’ face for – well, he’s not quite sure for what.

“That’s my boy,” Mr. Graves purrs, and presses a hard kiss to Credence’s temple before he disapparates without another word.

Credence finds himself thinking that a kiss to his temple is strange, and he misses the soft, reassuring kisses to his forehead, that make him feel at ease and allow him to relax.

oOo

Mr. Graves grows impatient with each day Credence doesn’t bear any news, and while Credence would’ve once been delighted to see the wizard every day, he is now scared that every meeting will be the last, the disappointment about Credence’s unsuccessful search driving away Mr. Graves.

But the wizard shows up without fail, and Credence, suffering under nightmares and beatings, greedily sucks in the perfunctory touches, the cold kisses, the grip around his arms that’s too forceful to be considered caring or even in a sensual way anymore. Yet Credence wants it, bears even harsh touches because without them he doesn’t have anything left in his life.

And then a woman bursts into the room when he is kneeling at his Ma’s feet, taking the punishment for being late because of a meeting with Mr. Graves. It all happens too fast for him – his mother falls backwards, frozen stiffly, while his sisters scream and the woman kneels next to him. She’s Tina, she’s a witch, she says, and wants to know if he’s alright – and then Mr. Graves is there, and there’s yelling, and he curls up, scared, panicking even, wondering if this is where he gets obliviated.

There’s something raging through his chest, a buzz, an anger he can barely contain. It’s rising until he can barely stand it, but then the woman – Tina – disapparates and Mr. Graves spells Mary Lou and Credence’s sisters, and Credence quiets down, taking deep, shaking breaths. Fear sits in his stomach like a boulder, threatening to pull him under, drown him.

oOo

“Oh, Mr. Graves, aren’t you a bit too old for him?” Grindelwald asks after he’s examined the memories Percival keeps of Credence. “Such a sweet young lad. So eager to please.”

Percival stares at him defiantly.

“Do you know that your position is only half the reason I picked you as my temporary host?” Grindelwald nods to himself. “That’s right. In my vision, I saw the Obscurial close to that disgusting little woman and her Salemers. Imagine my surprise – such raw magical power right under the nose of that silly hag!” He laughs and takes a sip of Percival’s whiskey. “So I watched them, in the crowd, and followed them to their chapel. Sat there all day watching people come and go. Then sweet Credence left and imagine my surprise when I watched him meet none other than the Director of Magical Security himself.”

Of course Grindelwald doesn’t expect a real answer, he never removes the gag, enjoys hearing himself talk much more than having Percival spitting obscenities at him.

“Do you think he loves you? Or just your power?” Grindelwald cocks his head. “Not that I’m saying you’re not in shape, I mean, look at our body! But poor Credence – he’d do anything to leave his old life behind, wouldn’t he?”

Percival keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling stoically, not showing Grindelwald the cilivlty of looking at him when he talks. However, Grindelwald forces his eyes on him with a quick spell when he gets annoyed by it. “If I want someone not looking at me, I’ll spend time with Credence,” he admonishes his prisoner.

Of course Percival can’t think about how Credence does look at him so much, how he’s earned Credence’s trust, how the young man showers him with attention when the time and place is right. Grindelwald can’t know these thoughts, so Percival keeps his mind as blank as he can.

“A man of your status, of your talent, wasting your time with that Squib…” Grindelwald’s Graves-eyes burn themselves into Percival’s, hatred and disgust dripping from them. When he looks like this, it’s easier for Percival to distinguish Grindelwald from his stolen looks. “You disgust me.”

He leans back in his chair and lets go of the spell that forces Percival’s eyes on him.

“We demoted Porpentina Goldstein today,” Grindelwald tells him after a while, with a fake pout, and Percival gags both at the use of the word ‘we’, as if he’s got anything to do with it except for being the prototype of Grindelwald’s current look, and at that information. “I mean, not that she didn’t have it coming, she really rubs us the wrong way, doesn’t she?” Grindelwald continues, knowledge stemming from what he believes to be Percival’s real memories. “Do you want to know what she did? Used magic to defend sweet Credence from his mother!”

Percival’s eyes widen slightly, a reaction he’d never allow himself if he hadn’t been held prisoner and subjugated to immense torture for days now.

“Does that shock you?” Grindelwald leans closer again, focusing on him intently. “It was only a matter of time until she’d lash out against our ban of interference. I put her into the Wand Permit Office, isn’t that quaint?”

The worry for Credence, the fear for what happened to the boy and his mother as well as the pure resentment Tina must harbour for who she believes to be Graves are close to breaking to the surface, to run through Percival’s mind, and keeping them down, keeping his calm is exhausting him in addition to the abuse he’s suffering. He wonders how much those close to him can still endure.

oOo

**7 th December**

The belt flies from Ma’s hands. Modesty backs away, eyes wide.

Credence feels the darkness clawing at his insides. He tries to push it down, but it’s stronger and breaks free with a roar.

When he comes to it, he’s surrounded by death and destruction. Shaking fingers find Mr. Graves’ medallion.

oOo

Grindelwald is brooding, staring at but not quite seeing a map of New York City for the past three hours, when the medallion resting on the desk suddenly starts glowing bright white. The dark wizard is on his feet in an instant, turning to grin at Percival triumphantly.

“It seems our sweet boy finally found what he was supposed to find. Took that disgusting little Squib long enough.” He sneers. “I don’t know how you can stand being around him. He’s a mess, a mumbling, stuttering idiot. Looks at us like a lost puppy, but even those are not dumb enough to return when you kick them once. He just keeps coming back.”

Percival, as always, remains stoically silent, mostly because he’s gagged. But he keeps his mind clear, too, lucid enough to realize that Credence’s life might very well depend on him showing indifference now. The memories Grindelwald has are difficult enough, but as long as the dark wizard thinks he’s just taking a predominantly sexual interest in a weak, submissive No-Maj, everything is fine.

“Well, let’s see what he’s found. If the original host dies while I tame the Obscurus, maybe I’ll let Credence host it afterwards. Shouldn’t be too hard to convince him, after all, he craves magic and our tutelage _so much_.”

Grindelwald grins and disapparates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpopular opinion: I don't believe in sexual Predator!Grindelwald. Yes, he might use Credence's affection for Graves, but not all the way, sexually. more like 'i thought you loved me now go wash my frilly dark wizard underpants'


	6. Learnin' from each other's knowin'

**December 8 th, early morning hours**

One minute he’s still sitting in the darkness of his own home, bound, gagged and seething. The next minute, he can feel his whole flat vibrating, a deep hum creeping from the floor into his body. The hair on his bare arms stands on end, the air charged with electricity suddenly. Then a massive crack in the wall across him appears, maybe one hand wide, enough to reveal the night sky.

The air is icy, gusts of wind whipping through the crack and into his flat, bringing with them icy droplets of rain. It’s only then that he notices something else coming in through the crack. It seeps in, a thin black current, and pools on his floor near the crack.

Percival’s eyes are not used to even the small amount of light the outside world provides and it takes him a moment to realise that the black mass is slowly piling up into an almost human shape.

For a second, he wonders if this is Grindelwald with a new idea of torture. _Crucio_ must be getting boring after a while. But something about this whole situation feels familiar, the _power_ that is clearly being emitted by the black mass is familiar.

He shifts on his knees, groaning around the gag when his body protests and it doesn’t seem possible, but the black mass tenses up, pulses almost angrily – and Percival can hear it whisper his own name. “Percival…”

He raises an eyebrow, wants to say something, but can’t. At this point he doesn’t even care anymore if the… creature, for the lack of a better word, knowing him is good or not. He shifts again, trying to do – well, he’s not sure what it is he’s trying to do.

However, this seems to upset the creature more and without warning it breaks out to the left, a maelstrom of pure energy, and crashes into the wall. Percival has the feeling that the creature would be more than powerful enough to tear a whole right through the concrete, but as it is now, it only manages another rather deep crack. It zips towards the other wall, to Percival’s right, and he feels the quake when the mass collides with this wall, too, knocking down paintings, a bookshelf and sending furniture flying.

It whirls on the spot then, for only a second, and Percival swears he can see a pair of milky white eyes staring at him brokenly, before the force flies right at him and he’s hit square in the chest by what feels like one of the No-Majs’ trucks.

Percival was right, the creature seems to be pure energy and despite the immense pain, his skin breaks out in goosebumps when he comes in full body contact with the raw power. He doesn’t linger on that thought, though, because he’s been knocked back against the wall, one of his legs twisting in a way he knows it’s broken, his head colliding with the wall so hard he can’t breathe anymore and sees black spots dancing behind his closed eyes.

He gasps for air, tasting blood in his mouth – he must’ve bit his tongue – and hardly realizes the gag has slipped down, but he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, possibly some broken ribs, the weight on his chest is too much, it’s too-

The weight on his chest is a human.

He blinks in the darkness, around the dark spots, tries to focus around the pain, around the feeling of suffocating and grunts out: “ _Lumos_!”

The smallest of light appears, something akin to a firefly in its last minutes alive. The light flickers, barely enough to make out anything at all, and still enough to tell Percival all he needs to see. He shifts, blending out the pain of his broken leg, his aching, exhausted body and he’s seething again because he’s bound like a pig for a roast, he can’t move his arms when he so desperately needs them, so all he can do is lower his head, bend down until he feels like his neck will snap and then he pushes down some more until his forehead rests lightly against dark hair.

“I’m sorry, Credence.”

The body on top of Percival trembles slightly and when he feels something hot on his bare stomach, he realizes Credence is crying.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats, fighting against pain, the feeling of not getting enough air into his lungs and mostly the iciness that has spread inside him at the realization of what Credence has become, has been reduced to. What has been _done_ to him.

Then Credence speaks, and he’s hard to make out with his head pressed into Percival’s chest and the sobs escaping him ever so often. “..yuhrtme…

Helplessly, Percival whispers “what?”, hating himself for not understanding.

“You… HURT me!” Credence repeats, his head shooting up and Merlin’s Beard, his eyes are milky, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips, swollen and wet from his sobs are like a gaping wound in his pale face. “You HURT me, you PROMISED you never would but you HURT me and MURDERED ME!”

He’s trembling uncontrollably again now, too fast for it to be natural, and somehow his contours seem to shift. Percival has never struggled against the chains that keep his arms tied behind his back as hard as he does now. He can’t begin to imagine what Grindelwald has done to the poor boy – and he’s not quite sure what he means by ‘you murdered me’ – but every fibre of his being wants to explain, wants Credence to know that he is still safe with him, that he’ll never come to harm with him.

“Credence, please, calm down,” Percival tries, to no avail. He lets the words fall from his lips now rapidly, hoping to reach the boy he cares so much for somewhere inside that mass of pain and fear. “Look at me, my boy, look. I’m tied up. I’m a prisoner. A dark wizard has captured me and walks around looking like me. He’s wearing my face for… I don’t know, days now. Weeks, probably. I’m not… him. I’m me. You know me, Credence.” He takes a deep breath and thinks that maybe, the half-mad creature in front of him seems to listen to his words. At least the shifting and trembling mostly stops. He continues, bringing up small, wonderful memories that he knows Grindelwald has, too, because he watched them all. But still, there’s hope in him that maybe, just maybe, he thought them unimportant enough not to taint them.

“When I saw you for the first time, your fingers were blue, your nose bright red and I bought you gloves which you gave to your sister that same evening. When I told you about magic, when I showed you, I saw you smile for the first time. When your mother beat you so hard you couldn’t keep hold of your leaflets, I offered to heal you, but I had to ask permission because I promised I’d never use magic on you if you didn’t want me to. When I told you to use my first name, you insisted on ‘Mr. Graves’. ” Percival’s voice dies down, his throat is painful from not speaking that much in a long while. It’s only used to screaming these days. “All I ever wanted was for you to be safe.”

“You- he… you wanted to use me. For my power,” Credence whispers, his first words that don’t come out as shouts of anguish.

“The man who looks like me is called Grindelwald,” Percival explains, fighting against the pain in his body with iron will, “and he will pay for what he’s done.”

Credence slowly raises his head, staring at Percival brokenly. His eyes are back to their usual colour, but there is a milky filter over them, making him look half-blind. “What _he_ did?” Credence bites his lips and tears start streaming from his eyes. “I murdered people. I k-killed! Ma is dead- and-and Chastity and-“

His voice breaks away and he trembles again, the magical charge to the air increasing within seconds.

“You’re an Obscurial, Credence,” Percival breathes out, realising that he is going to fall unconscious soon if he can’t do something about the pain and blood loss he’s experiencing. “It means there’s something inside you that uses your power to do bad things. A virus called an Obscurus.”

“No...” Credence hisses, still trembling. “It’s me. It’s part of me.”

“My boy-“ Percival growls when he sees spots dance before his eyes, fighting for every waking second “- you are kind and gentle. The darkness is not part of who you are. Fight it. For me.”

“I- I  can’t!” Credence shouts in exasperation, digging his fingers into Percival’s sides, who cries out in pain.

“Credence-“

Credence disapparates, flickers back into existence a couple of steps away from Percival and cries out in pain, too, when blood bursts from a cut across his cheek – a typical Splinching wound. Bounds of darkness ooze from him and suddenly the tendrils tighten, pulse once. Twice. And break free.

Percival is knocked back again and feels two more ribs crack. He’s dimly aware that the bonds holding his arms on his back rip apart. Furniture bursts, papers are scattered like leaves in autumn – and his Fiend Glass is knocked down, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces.

oOo

The pain in his cheek is nothing compared to the turmoil on Credence’s inside. He’s desperately, tensely trying to keep the panic at bay, to stop it from rising. If he panics…

Most of the thing – the Obscurus –  is gone. The dark, horrible thing inside him. But the power is still there – and the thing, as horrible as it was, kept it at bay for most of the time.

Credence can still feel it at the edges of his mind and heart though. As if there is a tiny sliver left, the sliver that makes him blurry, that makes him lash out. If he nurses it, the darkness can return. Feed off the power again.

 _Kill again_. Make _him_ kill again.

He can’t let it come to that again, Credence knows this. There has been so much death and destruction at his hands already. He wants nothing more than peace.

Credence dimly remembers the man called Newt. He had been nice, kind even – but a different kind of compassionate than Mr. Graves. He’d talked to Credence like a wounded animal, like he was broken – which is what he feels like at the moment, true. But Mr. Graves never treated him that way.

Credence also remembers the witch, Tina. She had tried to protect him – but a different kind of protection than Mr. Graves had offered. She’d tried to keep Credence out of harm’s way entirely. It was what he needed, at that moment. But Mr. Graves always saw the strength in Credence to defend himself, even when the boy himself couldn’t see it.

And then Mr. Graves – or the man looking like him –  talked. And every single word was wrong, so wrong.

Strange witches and wizards attacking – the feeling of being torn apart. Painful, powerful magic cursing through him. A blinding light.

Nothing.

Then – tearing through the night sky, through rain and icy wind – crashing into the one place where he always felt safe. Seeing _him_. Feeling the darkness clinging to Credence himself like a leech, the last bit that didn’t quite let go yet, that survived with Credence – or maybe Credence survived because of it. Feeling the power. Feeling the fear. Feeling the anger.

“Credence-“ the man that claims to be the real Mr. Graves grunts and tries helplessly to sit up. “If you don’t control yourself, you’ll kill me.”

 _Kill_.

Credence doesn’t want to kill. Not ever again. Not even – well, not even the man who betrayed him. Who says it wasn’t him, not really. Just someone wearing his face.

The explanation seems to make sense. Credence _wants_ it to make sense, doesn’t want to believe his Mr. Graves would ever treat him like the apparent imposter has all week. But his brain is full of pain and memories, and he can’t think straight, now less than ever.

A tiny silver light catches Credence’s attention. It floats up from the broken shard of a mirror – _Fiend Glass,_ his brain supplies from a distant, clear-thinking corner. Like all things magic, it fascinates Credence in a calming way and his eyes stay trained on it as it slowly floats over before coming to a halt between the two men.

He doesn’t realise that the trembling stops and his heart rate slows down, because the more he concentrates, the more he seems to be able to hear voices coming from the silver light.

_“Let me help.”_

It’s Mr. Graves’ voice. Kind, yet urgent. Almost pleading.

Credence reaches out unconsciously and the silver light hovers in his direction before stopping and hovering back towards the man who claims to be Mr. Graves. From the corner of his eyes, Credence sees how the man on the floor struggles to lift a hand and a simple metal bowl comes flying from a corner of the room with a clang, landing in between them sloppily.

Before Credence can react, the silver light suddenly drops into the bowl, fills it like a liquid and then pulses once before everything turns into a swirl of colour.

Credence yelps and startles back, but he’s already gone from the dark flat and watches half in panic, half in awe, how… himself follows Mr. Graves – unwounded, clean Mr. Graves, wearing only trousers and an undershirt – down the hallway of the flat in its normal state.

_It’s August._

“Do you remember this day?” a voice startles him and he whips around to face another version of Mr. Graves, this time the bloody, beaten one he crashed into mere minutes ago. He’s slumped against a wall of the hallway, heavily favouring his right leg. One hand is wrapped around his bare stomach, where blood is silently dripping down towards the floor. His irregular breaths are accompanied by a wet rattle deep in his chest.

Credence can only nod silently.

“I hid this memory from Grindelwald when he captured me,” battle-Graves tells him as Credence watches in silence how August-Graves cleans up August-Credence with a cloth.

The young man remembers vividly how broken he had felt that day, how welcome a release from his life had seemed – until Mr. Graves found him and whisked him away, and gave Credence the power to choose what he wanted, how far he wanted to go. Mr Graves had seen beauty and strength where Credence had seen shame, in the shape of a rosary burned into his flesh.

Credence and battle-Graves watch silently how the scene unfolds. The medical cupboard flies open. August-Graves heals. They’re kissing.

“You… hid this?” Credence isn’t sure if he wants to know why or how.

“To protect you,” battle-Graves explains the why. “I knew he was going to pick my brain for important memories that make me _me_. He could copy my look, but he needed memories to fool everyone.” He pauses for a second, his knuckles going white when he tightens the grip around his stomach momentarily. “I hid this to protect you. Altered memories of my friends to protect them.”

August-Graves and -Credence have moved to the bedroom, their spectators following slowly. Credence walks carefully, Mr. Graves limps along, using the wall for support.

_“I need you to be sure that’s what you want.”_

Credence swallows thickly. Mr. Graves had always been like that. Making sure what he was doing was fine with Credence. Of course Credence was terrified of so many things so often, was insecure. Doubted himself. But never, ever, not once had Mr. Graves been the cause of that.

Until roughly a week ago.

“You-… he felt wrong,” Credence whispers toneless, failing to meet battle-Graves’ eyes. It’s the first time he’s able to make a distinction between the Percival Graves he’s come to know and the imposter of the last week. Credence is almost certain now that even though he doesn’t quite understand wizards stealing each other’s faces, the bloody Mr. Graves in front of him is the one he wants, needs so much – the one who is everything to him.

Credence’s attempt at explaining it is clumsy and he grows annoyed at himself for being unable to express what he means.

“Did he-“ battle-Graves abruptly stops himself, jerks his head over to the bed and Credence watches how his left hand tightens into a fist. He has never heard Mr. Graves not finish a sentence before, and he’s not sure if _that_ is more shocking, or what he is implicating is.

“N-no.”

Battle-Graves nods grimly, but before Credence gets the chance to say anything else, the injured wizard slides down the wall, eyes shut tightly.

Credence rushes over, ignoring the August day that unfolds on the bed, ignoring his fear, his doubts, his anger. “Mr. Graves?”

The older man blinks one eye open and smiles grimly. “Percival,” he corrects and raises his left hand, roughly stroking over Credence’s cheek. He doesn’t flinch back. “I need your help, my boy. When we’re back, you need to keep this memory safe in the bowl.”

Credence nods jerkily, focusing intently on what Mr. Graves- _Percival_ is telling him. It’s him, it has to be him. Credence wants him to be _him_ so much it hurts.

“Then, you need to close the bigger wounds on my chest and stomach. I’m losing a critical amount of blood; I haven’t got much time left. Heal yourself, too.”

Panic rises in Credence again, but it’s a different one than before. Not the confused panic about the real and wrong Mr. Graveses, not a primal fear of being attacked – it’s helplessness. “I- I don’t know any magic- I can’t-“

Mr. Graves’ breath rattles and his eyes fall closed again. “Spells won’t help with the cuts anyway, this is dark magic. You know what to do Credence. I trust you. You’ve seen-“

The wizard stops abruptly and then the sound around them goes fuzzy, the world suddenly loses its colour – and Credence is catapulted out of the memory, blinking into the darkness and cold of the destroyed flat. It takes him a couple of seconds to locate Mr. Graves, who lies on his side, pale and motionless.

_“You know what to do Credence. I trust you.”_

Credence whimpers, but climbs to his feet shakily. The darkness, the power, his own pains – they become secondary while he desperately tries to focus his mind. What is there that he can do? What has he seen that-

His eyes fall on the bowl with the memory.

He drops to his knees and crawls over to it, carefully cradles it to his chest and stands up again. Then he limps down the hallway, carefully side-stepping debris and doing his best to ignore how his body protests, how every joint aches and every muscle screams.

The bowl finds a secure place on the nightstand next to Mr. Graves’ bed – which Credence very pointedly doesn’t look at – before he hurries into the bathroom, opening the medical cupboard with trembling fingers.

His eyes rake over the myriads of bottles, pots and cups until he finally finds the one he’s looking for. _Dittany_ , the label reads.

He doesn’t hesitate, simply grabs it and makes his way back, praying to God that he won’t be too late, even though he’s not even sure there is someone out there listening to him anymore. Not after all he’s been through today, not after all he’s done.

He drops to his knees next to the still body on the floor and presses an icy hand to the area of Mr. Graves’ heart. Credence breathes in relief when he feels weak thumping. He opens the bottle of Dittany essence with shaking fingers and begins applying it to the big gash across the wizard’s stomach. Under Credence’s eyes the flesh starts mending and the unconscious man groans lightly. The wound is still tender and raw, but a thin layer of new skin covers it and the blood has stopped flowing.

Credence concentrates as best as he can and closes cut after cut until his own hands are wet and shiny with Mr. Graves’ blood. The sun rises, dipping the flat in pale yellow light.

oOo

Percival blinks his eyes open, frozen stiff, his leg throbbing dimly and his lungs burning.

Credence is lying next to him, his hands dark red with semi-dry blood and still wrapped around an empty Dittany bottle.

“My… wonderful boy,” Percival rasps out, startling Credence awake. The boy’s eyes widen in panic for a moment before he remembers where he is. He doesn’t exactly relax, but pushes himself up and reaches out for Percival, before stopping mid-air, apparently unsure of what to do.

Percival tries to sit up, too, and notices in satisfaction that Credence has tried to fix his right hand as best as he could. However, the pain in his chest is still there and his breath wheezes, not transporting enough oxygen to his brain. He gets dizzy, but does his best to hide it.

“Something is wrong with your lungs,” Credence mutters, fingers ghosting lightly over the fresh pink skin on Percival’s chest.

“But I’m still alive,” Percival replies, furrowing his brows at the effort of speaking and breathing at the same time. “I have you to thank for that.”

Credence drops his hands as if he burnt himself and Percival instantly finds himself missing the touch.

Fuck, he’s like putty in the boy’s hands. And he doesn’t care one bit.

“I didn’t- … you need help,” Credence says without looking up, staring intently at his own bloody hands.

Percival reaches out with his left hand and waits for Credence, who hesitates, but then raises his hands to Percival’s. The wizard ignores his protesting body and wills his whole concentration into the Cleaning Magic. “ _Tergeo_.”

The blood is siphoned off Credence’s hands, and Percival slumps back against the wall, gasping for air as the tiny piece of magic leaves him breathless. They’re running out of time, but he can’t do anything until he knows what Credence wants.

“Credence?” he asks, blinking his eyes open slowly and willing them to focus on the pale boy in front of him. Dark eyes find his – the milky white haze is gone from them. “Where do you want to go?”

The young man’s eyes widen and he bites his lip. He’s shivering in the cold flat, the icy December air is still mercilessly blowing through the crack in the wall – neither of the men is dressed enough to withstand it, much less keeping each other warm. Finally, he stammers: “I- I don’t know. I have… nothing left.”

Percival shakes his head and regrets it instantly when black spots dance before his eyes. “You have me. If you want to.” _And if I survive the next couple of hours,_ he adds grimly in his mind. “Do you trust me?”

This is it – the most important question of the immediate future. It’s not just about trusting each other in the long run. It’s about Credence trusting him _now_ to be _real_. To be _him_.

Percival feels himself getting impatient while Credence struggles for words and truths, but admonishes himself instantly for the feeling. Of course the situation is urgent health-wise but he can’t be impatient with Credence now. That’s not how he is, or ever was. Not with Credence.

And the wonderful boy takes a deep breath, finally, and nods.

In a less freezing on-the-doorstep-to-death scenario this would probably call for a dramatic romantic gesture. Instead, Percival takes all the strength he has left and hoists himself up to his knees and then uses the wall and half of a broken shelf to rise to his feet. Credence does his best to help, but Percival realises how weak the younger man is, too. Just because he’s not bleeding as heavily as Percival was before doesn’t mean he’s fine.

Percival, with Credence’s help, rests his hand on the boy’s neck, while supporting himself on the wall with the other hand. Then, he takes a deep breath. “I need you to help me, Credence. Concentrate really hard. The power inside you – I know it scares you. But you can control it.”

Credence jerks back slightly, but doesn’t get too far with Percival’s hand still holding him firmly, yet without force. His eyes are wide and the goose bumps on his bare shoulders are not from the cold anymore.

“No-no, please- no-“ he whimpers pleadingly.

Percival strokes his thumb over soft skin at the nape of Credence’s neck to soothe him. “I promise I’ll protect you. I just need you to concentrate.”

“I can’t,” Credence pleads, “what if I- I-“

“You won’t hurt anyone. You won’t have to do anything,” Percival promises him. “I’ll do the spell. I just need your help to concentrate.”

“Just… concentrate?” Credence still looks unhappy, but Percival can see the effort he puts into regulating his breathing. He nods.

“Just concentrate. Push your power to me. Aim it, if you can.”

Credence nods shakily and closes his eyes.

“Channel it-“

Percival can’t finish the sentence, can’t even finish the thought. He feels a massive surge of magical energy barrelling into him. However, this time it’s not violent, like before. The energy is not out to hurt him, not uncontrolled. It’s a raw charge, sending his body buzzing and he concentrates hard on where he wants to go, pulls Credence close and tightens his arms around him.

They disapparate with a faint pop. And then there are blinding lights, a room that smells faintly of Strudel and Queenie Goldstein yelps as they both crash into her living room.


	7. Lookin' to see how much we've grown

Credence, who has never felt any attraction to women in his young life can’t help but be intimidated by the casual sensuality that the witch in front of him exudes. Everything about her is soft motions, warmth and kindness, even when tears fall from her eyes. She has to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“Oh, thank you,” she mutters, giving him a watery smile. “You are such a precious young man.” She’s let out a shriek when her eyes fell on Credence before rushing forward and touching soft fingers to his cheek. He didn’t even have the time to shrink back, too short taken by her. Completely ignoring Mr. Graves, she’d stared into his eyes intensely, eyes getting shiny and filling with tears almost instantly. And now this comment – Credence stands tensely, tightening his grip around Mr. Graves’ waist subtly.

“Miss Goldstein is what we call a Legilimens,” Mr. Graves tells him. He is paler than ever and suddenly Credence worries again, more so than before.

“It means I can read people’s thoughts, if they let me,” Miss Goldstein explains and Credence feels a blush creep to his cheeks at the realisation of what he _thought_ before. The witch narrows her eyes in worry when she turns from Credence to Mr. Graves. “Mr. Graves, what-“

“No time, we both need help. I have fractured rips, possibly a punctured lung. Broken leg, internal bleeding. Won’t make it much longer,” Mr. Graves grunts out through his teeth, sentences getting sloppy and clipped. One of his hands is still placed on Credence’s neck. The boy presses into him despite all the fear and insecurity.

Credence is so weak, and disgusted by himself because he wants this man to be Mr. Graves so desperately, wants to believe things like wearing someone’s face is possible, wants to believe it’s all just been a nightmare.

But merciful God, Credence has _killed_ people, he can’t undo that, and all he can think about is that he wants one thing in his life to be _right_. The panic is rising in him, and with it this power that he has, untamed now by the Obscurus that lived off it.

“Please, Credence, don’t be upset,” Miss Goldstein whispers, resting one hand lightly on his, ignoring Mr. Graves completely. Her tears have stopped, she seems to do her best to pull herself together. “Calm down, honey. I know it’s a lot, but we can figure it out.”

It doesn’t help much. But it’s enough for Credence to look at her instead of his feet, and it’s enough to push the power that’s threatening to erupt again down a bit.

“Maybe I should get Tina, or President Picquery,” Miss Goldstein suggests, reaching for her wand. Mr. Graves shakes his head harshly. Credence watches how blood from numerous smaller wounds, where he ran out of Dittany to heal, drops on the floor.

“No time. I know you patch up your sister. Heal the bones, _Brackium Emendo_ , or maybe _Ferula_ should do. Then my lung.” Mr. Graves turns to look at Credence, who peers at him anxiously. “Help me lie down, my boy.”

Miss Goldstein moves out of the way silently and waves her wand, summoning different bottles and pots from all over the flat while Credence does his best to lower Mr. Graves down on the sofa that Miss Goldstein turned on of the beds into without causing him more pain. It’s fruitless, but finally the man is resting, with Credence kneeling beside him.

“Miss Goldstein will put me to sleep, Credence. It’s necessary. You are in good hands with her, I promise you that. Let her look at your wounds, and if you don’t want her to read your mind, tell her. She will listen,” the wizard mutters, fixing hooded eyes on Credence.

Credence is tense as ever, can’t express how he doesn’t want to be left alone here with a stranger. But even he realises that if Mr. Graves dies, it would mean the end of him, too. And Miss Goldstein doesn’t seem like she has a single bad bone in her, he tries to tell himself. Mr. Graves certainly trusts her enough to heal him.

“Don’t…” the young man starts, but catches himself, inhaling shakily. “Please don’t- leave me,” he says, heart pounding. Again, it’s frustrating how he stumbles over words. He doesn’t mean ‘leave me alone with Miss Goldstein’ – he means _death_. But that seems like too big a thing to say, too horrible to even think.

“This is a beginning, Credence. Not an end,” Mr. Graves tells him and he sounds so sure of it, so certain, that Credence almost believes him.

Miss Goldstein then hands the Auror a small cup that he downs without fussing. Before his eyes fall shut, he gives Credence, who kneels at the end of the sofa by his feet, giving the witch the space she needs to work, one last look. It speaks of pride, pain and, underneath everything, deep affection.

The witch begins to heal, then, and soon her hands are bloody, too. Credence prays, because he doesn’t know what else there is left for him to do.

oOo

When Percival wakes up, he enjoys the feeling of breathing without feeling like drowning on dry land. Queenie must’ve succeeded in repairing his lungs, then. Or at least managed to cut the losses. Breathing is still painful, of course, but it feels more like having a severe cough than like dying.

It takes him a moment to take in his surroundings, but then he manages to prop himself up on one elbow, taking everything in. There is no light outside except the faint glow of streetlamps, the sounds of pots and pans bustling about in the kitchen fills the air and Queenie and Credence are seated at the kitchen table.

Credence is still pale, but the grey hue to his skin is gone. He is dressed in simple black trousers and a white shirt, but the many layers he usually wears are gone. Also, his hair is slightly tousled and Percival is fairly certain Queenie is the one to thank for that – it definitely helps concealing the rather unflattering cut.

Percival watches Credence silently. The young man stares in complete awe at the younger Goldstein sister baking mid-air, while food is sizzling in the pots on the stove and the table is setting itself. Percival always knew this side of magic would be wonderful for his young lover to experience. It’s a pure kind of magic, not threatening, but nursing. Clean and warm.

“Tini, why don’t you bring Mr. Graves a pillow so he can sit up properly,” the Legilimens suggests without looking up from where she is directing dough to form tiny Azalea petals.

Credence’s head whips around and Percival watches in annoyance how his face loses some of the ease. He never wants to be the cause for unease in Credence again, another reason why he needs to get a hold of the whole messy situation as soon as possible.

“Would you help me with the pots, please?” Queenie asks the young man, resting a hand on his. It successfully captures his attention and with one last look to where Percival is awkwardly keeping himself pushed up on one elbow, he nods wordlessly and follows the blonde to the stove.

Then Tina steps into Percival’s field of vision, pillow-less, and gives him a nervous look, her hands tightened to fists around the sleeves of her blouse. “I guess you want to sit up.”

Percival grunts an affirmation and then carefully slides around until both of his feet touch the floor. He winces as he angles himself upward, using the backrest of the sofa to pull himself forward, but finally he sits, stiffly. No pillow required.

“What time is it?” His voice is still rough and speaking hurts his throat.

Tina takes a seat opposite him, in a chair, and checks her watch. “Almost seven in the evening. Still December 8th.” She looks back up at him, fixing him intently. “Queenie’s done her best, but you should get a check-up sooner rather than later. We’re not sure about your internal wounds. Grindelwald’s handiwork?”

Percival nods sharply, staring right back at her. Part of the wounds was caused by the remnants of lashing-out magic from Credence, but she doesn’t need to know that. Neither does Credence, for that matter. “So you caught him. Is he dead?”

“Arrested.”

“Casualties?”

“Zero within the magical community,” Tina tells him, then looks towards the kitchen where Credence is failing spectacularly at not trying to steal glances at the living room. “Actually, one. Obscurial Credence Barebone was destroyed by MACUSA Aurors yesterday evening,” Tina corrects her previous statement.

Percival sighs heavily. “Tina-“

“For Merlin’s sake, Percy – what is going on here?” she bursts out, tongue almost tripping over the hurried words, then whips out her wand and casts a Muffliato over the two of them when both Queenie and Credence startle in the kitchen. Tina is pale, and her hands are nervously fiddling with the hem of her cardigan now, something Percival has never seen her do before. “How long has it been since Grindelwald took you? How did you escape? And what is going on with Credence? I saw him die!”

“Grindelwald took me a little over a week ago. I used a spare moment to alter some of my memories so you and President Picquery would notice something was off,” Percival explains and huffs. “But apparently I’m a hard-ass on you too often.”

“You- I mean _he_ demoted me to the Wand Permit Office!” Tina exclaims huffily, her voice rising an octave in her agitation. “The _Wand Permit Office_!”

Percival raises an eyebrow, because at this point, there’s nothing more to be done. “How many permits did you issue?”

“ _None_!” Tina yelps and then falls back in her chair, glaring at him. Percival counts to five in his head before her glare turns into a lopsided smile. “It’s good to see you, Sir.”

“It’s good to see you too, Goldstein.”

For a moment, they sit in silence. Percival pretends not to feel like run over by a herd of Pukwudgies in battle armour while Tina pretends not to have a million questions. They both fail.

“So, Credence,” she states casually.

“Is alive and has to be protected at all costs,” Percival says neutrally, watching her intently. She stares right back, holding his gaze, until he nods impalpably.

“I wasn’t going to drag him to the MACUSA via side-along apparition,” she concedes. “But... you _do_ know what he is, right?”

Percival sighs. “He was an Obscurial. But whatever my Aurors and Grindelwald have done to him, I think they killed the Obscurus. Or at least part of it. The boy has an immense potential. With the proper training-“

Tina interrupts him harshly, her brows furrowed. “We can’t hide him forever!” However, one look from Percival shuts her up again almost immediately.

“That is not my intention. But I won’t throw him to the Grindylows bleeding. He needs to be prepared to face the court, and master some of his magic to ensure he won’t develop an Obscurus again.”

Percival half-expects Tina to disagree – it’s one of the things she still has to learn to control. But to his surprise, she nods. “Queenie and I won’t breathe a word until you’re- until he’s ready.” Then, she cocks her head, remembering something. “You need to inform President Picquery that you’re alive, though. I cashed in most of my favours to help Newt – sorry, of course you don’t know him, I’ll explain later. She’ll have my head if she learns we’ve been hiding you.” In an afterthought, she adds: “Actually, so will Mrs. Esposito.”

“Did President Picquery send out search parties yet?”

Tina shifts in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “She did. They investigated your flat this morning, but it was destroyed and there was no trace of you except a large amount of blood. Right now they’re having trouble deciding what to do next.”

Percival lifts an eyebrow. “Why don’t they use my wand and try to trace me?”

Now Tina colours a deep scarlet and reaches into a hidden pocket of her cardigan.

“I… might have taken the liberty to do that myself.” She holds out his wand for him to take and Percival does his best not to reach out too eagerly – it wouldn’t be becoming for him. When his fingers close around the familiar dark wood, he can almost feel the happy hum the magical object emits and can’t help but grimace at the thought of Grindelwald _fondling_ it for over a week.

Conjuring up a Patronus even in his state barely takes any effort, not when Credence is alive and smiling shyly at Queenie Goldstein showing him a stack of wizarding books for kids. The silver polar bear rears up on its hind legs, roaring silently, before it barrels right through the wall of the flat and is off to find Seraphina.

“And now we need a Legilimens,” Percival tells Tina, content that he can finally work on getting his life back on track. There is so much still to be done, he has the feeling demoting Tina is not the only thing Grindelwald has done and he definitely needs to see a medical professional soon – but right now, there are two things of utmost importance.

While Tina narrows her eyes, but lifts the Muffliato and leaves for the kitchen to talk to her sister, Percival takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the sofa. For a second, the world spins, but he ignores the rising nausea and instead concentrates on the transfiguration spell he has in mind.

With a little bit of effort, he turns the ragged trousers into proper ones and conjures up new socks, shoes and a shirt. He foregoes the undershirt out of simple practicality – too much magical effort for something unnecessary – but conjures up a simple black waistcoat, too. It relaxes him to return to his semi-normal, well-dressed state, and the waistcoat is tight enough to support his aching spine at least a little bit, doubling as a corset in a way.

He nods in appreciation when Tina floats a mirror, towel and a bowl of warm water over to him and shortly later, he looks almost like himself again. A bruised, pale version of himself, haggard and with dark shadows under his eyes. In fact he looks more like an evil imposter of ‘Percival Graves’ would look like _now_ than Grindelwald ever did.

It makes him want to punch something blond, human-shaped, European, with different coloured eyes.

oOo

Credence always knew that watching the wonders of Miss Goldstein’s magic –he’s supposed to call her Queenie – would only be a temporary respite from dealing with the aftermath of everything that happened. Yet he is torn between the urge to follow Mr. Graves’ movements with his eyes constantly and the fear of the talk that is surely to come.

“I know I promised not to read your thoughts, but when you’re anxious like this, it’s hard not to, honey,” Queenie tells him quietly, smiling. She always seems to be, even when she’s crying. Credence thinks it must be exhausting for untrained cheeks to do that.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises reflexively. Queenie is having none of it, though.

“Don’t be silly. I’d be scared too!” she admits, doing nothing to make Credence feel better. “But if you’re scared, it means you really care. And I know you do – I’ve seen it.”

“Mr. Graves, he- I mean, we don’t-“ Credence stammers, realising what Queenie knowing how he feels about the older man implicates.

Queenie rubs his shoulders carefully, and a part of him wonders how he can accept her touch so easily. Another part realises it’s because she’s just so _good_. “I think it’s wonderful,” she tells him. “Worth fighting for,” she adds after a moment, and for the shortest of moments Credence thinks he can see a shadow in her eyes, a tang of sadness clinging to the edges of her voice. There is a name, too, somehow it’s in his mind without him knowing how it got there. _Jacob_.

“Now come on, let’s see what our fancy Mr. Graves wants,” Queenie decides resolutely and gives Credence a light pat on the back to urge him to move.

They make their way over to the living area, where Mr. Graves is waiting for them. His eyes are trained on Credence, who suddenly can’t bear returning the look and stays focused on the wizard’s chest.

“How are you, Mr. Graves?” Queenie asks sweetly, breaking the silence. She doesn’t seem to be impressed by Tina’s or Credence’s discomfort or Mr. Graves’ presence that exudes power and commands respect even when he’s recovering from severe torture and injuries.

“Much better, thank you, Miss Goldstein,” Mr. Graves replies sincerely. He’s not known for exchanging pleasantries, he is genuinely thankful for the care he’s received. Even though he more or less demanded it, of course, by simply popping up and bleeding on the floor.

“Tina tells me you need my assistance,” the blonde then inquires. Credence, from under his lashes, notices how Mr. Graves’ eyes return to him, and he wants to say something, too, but there are too many people in the room for him to speak up and he’s not even sure what it is he would say. So he lets the scene unfold, watching quietly.

Mr. Graves nods. “There’s one last thing that needs to be taken care of. For both you and your sister’s sake, for mine in a way – but mostly for Credence.” Credence’s eyes shoot up at the mention of his name and he feels the attention of everyone on him sending a blush to his cheeks. “I need to prove that I am really me, not some imposter.”

“But we already know you’re the real Percival Graves,” Tina pipes up, confused.

Credence wants to be convinced like her, too, but he’s suffered disappointment and betrayal too often to be able to trust his eyes and ears anymore. He was almost sure earlier – but only just almost.

Mr. Graves felt like he used to under his hands, spoke with care. Gave him choices, guided him. Protected him. What he explained made sense, Credence supposes. Hiding and altering memories. If that is a thing wizards can do – and Queenie confirmed that – it seems very much like the kind of incredibly smart, talented thing the older man would do to protect those he cares about. _And_ he has the memory of that August day, safely stored away in a bowl.

But.

But what if it’s still a trick.

“ _How_ do you know I’m me?” Mr. Graves specifies. He sounds testy, tired, tense – and Queenie gives him a sharp look.

“We saw Grindelwald getting arrested.”

“That’s not enough proof,” Mr. Graves replies, his voice hard. “Credence didn’t. And even if, who says I’m not another imposter.” He fixes Queenie. “Read my mind. Read it, force your way through it and swear an Unbreakable Vow to tell Credence the truth.”

Queenie shakes her head, and even when her mouth forms a grim line, she’s beautiful. “There are more important things. Credence-“

“Needs to understand. He needs to understand what has been done to him by Grindelwald, not me. This is not about _me_ disclaiming responsibility. Credence needs to understand who I am.”

The man looking like Mr. Graves sounds so much like him that Credence can feel the tears pooling in his eyes from the sheer desperation of wanting it to be true.

“I won’t let Queenie swear a vow that can kill her,” Tina interrupts, crossing her arms.

“Tini, I love you, but you don’t ‘let’ me do things,” Queenie tries to sooth her sister before looking at Credence, her expression softening. “Credence, don’t be upset. This must be so confusing for you, but what Mr. Graves says is true. It would be good to have proof about who he is.”

Credence takes a couple of deep breaths before lifting his head until his eyes meet Mr. Graves’. “What… does it mean? An Unbreakable Vow?”

“The terms of an Unbreakable Vow cannot be broken without the wizard doing it dying. The ultimate security,” Mr. Graves explains. “I’ll let Miss Goldstein read my mind, allow her to force her way through everything there is to see. That way she will be able to tell the truth about who I am.”

“But-“ Credence starts, but doesn’t know how to even form the question he wants to ask. It has to do with privacy, with his relationship with Mr. Graves. With protecting them as a wizard and a – formerly – non-magical person, with treason. With them being _them_ , and being two men. With Mr. Graves’ career, and life.

“I want you to trust me again,” Mr. Graves tells him, and Credence realises the older man understands exactly what his plan entails. Is willing to risk it. Then, Mr. Graves turns to Queenie. “Please.”

Queenie’s eyes widen, just as Credence’s, when they hear Mr. Graves say the word. The witch only hesitates another moment, before looking at her sister. “Will you-?”

Tina hesitates, her mouth a grim line and her fingers gripping her wand tightly. Then she nods at her sister. Mr. Graves holds out his right arm with his shirt sleeve rolled back to the elbow. Queenie, arms bare because she’s wearing a short rosy dress, reaches out and they clasp hands, holding onto each other’s wrists. Tina holds her wand over them, and Mr. Graves begins to speak.

“Will you, Queenie Goldstein, tell Credence, your sister and President Picquery the truth about who I am using your powers as a Legilimens?”

“I will.”

At Queenie’s confirmation, a small band of fire winds itself around their conjoined hands.

“And will you swear to inform them of any attempts I make to use Occlumency against you for this purpose?”

“I will.”

A second ring of fire adds itself to the first, burning in a soft, orange light.

“Will you also swear to inform them about any hidden or altered memories you might encounter, should you be able to identify them as such?”

“I will.”

A third fiery band adds itself to Queenie’s and Mr. Graves’ clasped hands and then the bands pulse once and goes out, leaving behind three thin red marks on each of the participants’ arms.

Tina takes her sister’s hand in hers and rubs the marks soothingly, before Queenie swats her hands away. “Stop fussing over me, Tina,” she admonishes and turns back to Mr. Graves. “Are you ready?”

With one last look at Credence, Mr. Graves nods. The flat falls silent.

At first, nothing seems to happen besides Mr. Graves and Queenie fixing each other with looks, barely blinking. But then Queenie lets out a sob and tears start to fall from her eyes, while Tina rushes to support her younger sister. Credence keeps his eyes trained on Mr. Graves, whose jaw is tense and whose hands are tightening into fists. Then his nose starts to bleed.

The flat remains eerily silent, Queenie crying and Mr. Graves bleeding.

But after what feels like hours and, in reality, is about ten minutes, Queenie suddenly slumps down, only kept on her feet by her sister and Mr. Graves makes a shaky step backwards. Credence reaches out without thinking and steadies him, relishing in the feeling of warm skin and the crisp white shirt.

“Thank you, my boy” Mr. Graves mutters and squeezes his hand.

“Merlin’s Beard, I didn’t know…” Queenie sobs out and Credence throws her a panicked look.

“What is it?” Tina inquires softly, rubbing circles on her sister’s back.

“The battle with Grindelwald – Tina, Mr. Graves fought really ferociously. He-“ Queenie swallows and wipes her cheeks, smiling shakily, “he’s rather good.”

Credence hears Mr. Graves huff through his nose, but there’s a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It makes Credence wants to kiss him so urgently that he quickly lowers his head and desperately recounts Salemer slogans before Queenie can pick up on it. This _has_ to be his Mr. Graves – talented, powerful, proud. And kind. It _has_ to be.

“So you mean I actually have to listen to him when he says my wand work is sloppy?” Tina asks her sister, laughing weakly to cheer her up and Queenie nods, smiling wider.

Then, she explains: “Grindelwald captured him, but left. And Mr. Graves used that time to extract something. There is a memory missing, I can tell because what’s left of it feels incomplete…” she drifts off, but instead of watching Mr. Graves, she focuses on Credence.

 _Please_ , Credence thinks as hard and loud as he can. He knows what memory it is and he hopes he can somehow convey to Queenie how much it means, how private it is. And Queenie, wonderful Queenie lifts an eyebrow and gives him the barest of nods.

“Mr. Graves also did something I’ve never seen before – he’s altered memories of the relationship to you, Tini, and to President Picquery.” She pauses, refocusing on Mr. Graves, who listens silently to her verdict. “At first I thought ‘wow he really doesn’t get along with you or President Picquery’ but the memories had a weird look to them. As if they were more vibrant than the others. I had to dig in deeper – I’m afraid that’s what hurt you so much, apologies, Mr. Graves – to find the original memories underneath. I took the liberty of erasing the fake ones, too.”

“Grindelwald wasn’t as perceptive,” Mr. Graves replies, not commenting on how much pain Queenie’s probing has apparently caused him. Credence feels bad about what the older man is taking upon him to prove… well, everything. If he really is Mr. Graves – _has_ to be – then is sacrifice is enormous.

 “Neither were we,” Tina mutters darkly and Credence thinks she seems to be ashamed. For being fooled, just like him. Then she gets up and briskly walks away, leaving Queenie to look after her sadly.

“What did Grindelwald do to her?” Mr. Graves asks tonelessly. Credence knows the expression he wears well. It was like the calm before the storm in August, before fury at Mary Lou had fuelled the wizard’s efforts in restoring Credence to full health, to keep him out of harm’s way. This time around, though, Credence has the feeling it won’t be healing Mr. Graves has his mind set on.

Queenie shifts uncomfortably. Finally, she gathers enough strength to admit: “He sentenced her and Newt to death. If not for Newt… well.” When she senses the anger in Mr. Graves, she tries to lighten the mood. “I helped, too. And I might have broken into your office. Sorry for that.”

That clearly perplexes Mr. Graves, and even though Credence has the feeling it doesn’t seriously distract the wizard, Mr. Graves _wants_ it to be distracting.  The alternative is thinking about how Grindelwald almost killed one of the few people he values most in his life. “You what?” He narrows his eyes. “How did you get past the spells?”

Queenie blushes violently. “I didn’t. I kicked in your door.”

Credence has to laugh, he can’t help it. It’s so unexpected he almost chokes on it when he clamps his mouth shut again. Mr. Graves and Queenie both watch him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, feeling the tips of his ears heat up.

“ _You_ kicked in my door?” Mr. Graves digs deeper.

Queenie is still flustered. “Yes. Me. By myself. Alone.”

 _Jacob_ , Credence thinks suddenly and Queenie’s eyes widen at him. _Don’t worry_ , he thinks, hoping it reaches her. If it does, she doesn’t show it.

“Anyway, Credence-“ Queenie hurries to say, clearly antsy to both leave the conversation which has taken an unpleasant turn for her and overtaken by the need to look after her sister. “This is definitely the real Mr. Graves. I think you two have a lot to talk about. I have to go and talk to Tina now.”

“I think she’s right, we need to talk” Mr. Graves says as they both watch Queenie walk away. “But not here.” He carefully straightens, then holds his hand out for Credence to take. “Do you want to come with me?”

And Credence, who took until now to fully comprehend what Queenie has just told him, having confirmation of what he wanted, needed so desperately to be true, to be _right_ – stumbles forward, crashing into Mr. Graves’ chest both physically as well as barrelling the magic on his inside into the unsuspecting wizard. They disapparate.

oOo

Madame President Seraphina Picquery has gotten used to the silver polar bear crashing into her office at odd hours of the day. However, usually it carries updates about suspects, the magical security or, in rare cases, invites for dinner. Not once has it carried a message like this.

_“I’m safe and in hiding. Give me one week, then I’ll explain. My Patronus should be proof enough. Trust me.”_

Seraphina rubs her forehead. She can practically feel the headache coming. The polar bear has long since puffed into non-existence, but she can still hear him.

What in Morgana’s name Percival is thinking, she doesn’t know. Just that she’ll personally kill him once he shows up again. Right after she asks him for forgiveness, of course.

She’s summoned her own Patronus three times already, trying to think of a reply that conveys everything she feels. It hasn’t come to her yet.

The MACUSA will run crazy if they realise Percival has been in contact with her. Even in her role as president she isn’t almighty. A decision like leaving him alone for a week during an ongoing investigation with him as one of the main witnesses and victims at the same time is not something the high-ranking officials will simply _tolerate_.

Maybe if she can name Porpentina Goldstein as temporary Head of Magical Law Enforcement and keep the focus on Grindelwald…

Seraphina huffs, then summons a giant silver horned serpent for the fourth time. She dictates her answer to the Patronus that rears up before disappearing through the ceiling.

oOo

They apparate in Percival’s bedroom. Almost immediately, the wizard raises his wand and begins checking every nook and cranny of his flat. He doesn’t have enough energy to clean up properly, but closes the cracks in the wall to the outside so the cold air finally stays out. Only when he’s sure the flat is empty except for Credence, he returns to the bedroom.

Credence is asleep on the bed, still wearing his clothes, on top of the blanket.

Every bone in Percival’s body aches to lie down, and his mind and soul long for the conversation the two of them need to have. But his eyes fall on the small bowl on the nightstand. It contains a memory.

He lifts his wand again, directing it to his temple and gasps quietly when the silver stream returns to its rightful place and the pictures flood his brain for a moment. He staggers backwards a step at the intensity and his eyes fall on Credence on the bed again – who is staring right back at him. Not asleep, then.

Before either of them can say something, though, the silver shape of a giant snake Patronus bursts through the wall of the bedroom and makes Credence scramble back in panic while Percival instinctively lifts his wand and throws himself in front of Credence, shielding him with his body as well as possible. Then he recognises what’s happening and relaxes as Seraphina’s voice tells him: “I’ll dock this from your vacation time.” Then, the serpent diffuses into silver mist.

“That was a message from the President,” Percival explains quickly, sitting down on the bed next to Credence, who relaxes visibly after the ghost-like shape is gone, but still keeps his eyes trained on the wall where it was suspiciously. “I told her I need a week before I can return to work.” He pauses, waiting for Credence to focus on him instead of the wall. “If you want to leave New York, or America, that should give us enough time.”

Credence’s eyes widen in wonder, his harried face, aged by everything he’s experienced in the last 48 hours de-aging through this expression. Percival finds himself focusing on the young man’s slightly open mouth and forces himself to focus on his eyes instead angrily. “U-us?”

“I’d be honoured.”

The boy takes a deep, shuddering breath, keeps his eyes fixed on Percival and says – “no.”

Percival feels like being slapped in the face. Of course there was always the possibility that Credence wouldn’t be able to trust him anymore, wouldn’t want him anymore. The selfish part of Percival’s brain is angry at the boy for that – after all, it wasn’t Percival’s fault to have been chosen by Grindelwald and everything that Grindelwald’s action have caused certainly isn’t Percival’s fault either. But the rational thinking part of his brain, the part that deals in kindness when it comes to the young man on his bed understands. Even if something in Percival’s chest feels like it’s broken.

But before he can think of anything in response, Credence moves to his knees, straightens his back and explains shakily, but without stuttering once: “I won’t run. I want to stay here, and learn. I want to live.” He pauses. “With you.”

Shell-shocked is a new feeling for Percival, and one he’s not entirely sure he appreciates. But right now, there is nothing he would do to change what he’s just witnessed. His Credence, his beautiful Credence is stronger than he ever was. The harder others tried to break him, the more he grew. And now that they tried to kill him, to destroy everything good in him, everything that made him unique, and wonderful – he rose from the ashes like a phoenix.

Percival’s long silence seems to have discouraged Credence a little bit, though, and his eyes shift downwards nervously.

“I work long hours,” Percival tells him, the desire to make sure Credence knows what he’s asking for overcoming his desire to pull the young man close and make up for every single bad experience he had to live through.

“I-I know. I’ll practice. And find work,” Credence replies, looking up again. There’s the glimmer in his eyes Percival knows as hope. Enthusiasm. He’s the only one ever getting to see it and if Credence ever finds out how ridiculously proud that makes him, he’ll be at Credence’s mercy.

“I promise to teach you, but I might not be gentle at times.” Percival thinks of how even though he removed the memory of kindness and friendship from his relationship to Tina nobody thought he was behaving differently. As if he was always just harsh and cold. Demanding.

Credence tightens his fists, but not angrily so. “You don’t have to be.”

And now Percival is a goner, because he knows fully well how strong his Credence his. Also not entirely helpful is the way his brain provides him with another incident of Percival rough-handling Credence – fingers dipping beneath his waistband, a hand in Credence’s neck, a low moan. _“No, please! I- I like it. When you do it.”_

Percival realises that for the sake of unclouded judgement, he’d probably have been better off without the memory of that August day until after they’d had their talk. Oh well.

So for the sake of Credence, and for the sake of his own sanity, and because he can’t draw this out any longer, Percival twists until he’s facing the younger man and pulls him close, one hand in his neck, until he can press his lips against Credence’s softly.

Credence hesitates only a moment before he brings one hand up to Percival’s face, resting it lightly on his cheek, and melts into the kiss with a blissful hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of a massive fucking polar bear crashing through walls in the MACUSA shouting around messages in Graves' voice. That's where that comes from. Also, polar bears are super deadly and kinda smart, so I guess it's not the worst Patronus choice.


	8. The Only One Who Could Ever Reach Me

**One week later**

“Concentrate, Credence,” Mr. Graves mutters into his ear. His voice is low and rough, and Credence can feel the heat the older man is emitting through the thin shirt on his back. Mr. Graves is lightly guiding his right arm, warm fingers on Credence’s bare skin – it does nothing whatsoever to help with Credence’s concentration.

Credence inhales shakily and tries not to shiver at Mr. Graves’ breath on his neck. Then he tightens the grip around the wand he is borrowing for the lesson. “ _Lumos_!” he says, and half-expects nothing to happen. _Too insecure, too shaky – perhaps not magical at all._

But the tip of Mr. Graves’ wand lights up and Credence almost drops it in surprise.

He turns around, still carefully holding on to the glowing wand and cocks his head at Mr. Graves. “Was that you?”

Mr. Graves actually grins, a rare sight in itself and pushes his hands into his trouser pockets. “No. You’re a _witch_.”

Credence has to laugh, even though the tips of his ears turn pink at being teased like that. Yet he marvels how easy it is to be happy when errors of his past are brought up in a humorous manner. Mr. Graves will never be malicious about mistakes he makes.

Mr. Graves reaches out and strokes over Credence’s cheeks, the young man leaning into the touch. The wand glows more brightly, flashes up like a fire fuelled by oil. Neither of the men comments on it, caught in each other for a moment.

Then Mr. Graves clears his throat. “Turn it off for me, please.” He drops his hand, watching Credence expectantly.

Credence bites his lip and nods. After a few seconds, he says: “ _Nox_.” The light flickers off immediately. Mr. Graves looks like the cat that got the cream.

“Perfect, my boy. How do you feel?”

The young wizard thinks about it for a second. “Okay. I just- need a moment, I think.” He holds out Mr. Graves’ wand reverential and the older man takes it back. The simple spell hasn’t been draining per se, but the power inside Credence is like the sea in turmoil. To use it for a small bit of magic requires a lot of effort to channel it, tame it to bid his will. He’s so used to keep a tight lid on it and wait for the pressure to build up enough to erupt chaotically that only taking small portions is difficult now.

Mr. Graves summons a glass of water and Credence takes it thankfully, sipping it while trying to listen to what his mentor explains about levitation. It’s hard to stay focused though. The bright morning light reflected by wet roofs lights up the flat that has been returned to its normal state. It also illuminates Mr. Graves, who tends to walk around while he explains so he has room to demonstrate things.

After three private appointments with medical professionals, his body is healing. The wounds that have been caused by dark magic like Fiendfyre or the Cruciatus Curse are still visible as red and pink welts all over his chest, but can be hidden with clothing. The eye that was swollen shut and bleeding has been returned to full functionality, but rests in a bruised socket for the moment. The broken bones caused by the remains of Credence’s erratic power outbursts are mended, too.

While Mr. Graves was being treated, Credence had spent the time hiding at the Goldstein’s apartment, where Queenie and Tina had taken care of some minor wounds. Still, most of his cuts and bruises have been healed by Mr. Graves, who is also the only one Credence is comfortable to show the skin of his back, arms or chest to. Physically, they’re both doing fine.

Their sleepless nights are another matter. Mr. Graves is haunted by the torture he experienced, even though he claims to be okay and doesn’t exhibit any nervous habits or tics. Credence has a hard time coming to terms with what the Obscurus did. When he sleeps, he sees the lifeless eyes of his mother. He feels the pain of being torn apart by magic again and again, like phantom pains.

But their trust in each other is not broken. With a few kind words and gestures from Mr. Graves and reassurance from Queenie Goldstein, Credence is relieved to have the one person back in his life that means everything to him.

And so they fight together, at night. Curled up around each other, having quiet conversations, pretending not to be afraid to go to sleep. Their touches are intimate, but not in the way Mary Lou would call it a sin. Well, she would, anyway. But it’s not like _that_. Strictly above the belt, meant to comfort, not arouse.

“Credence?”

Mr. Graves pulls him out of his thoughts and he realises he hasn’t been paying attention for a couple of minutes anymore. Immediately, he flushes, his cheeks burning from his bad conscience.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. I didn’t mean to… drift off.”

The older wizard waves him off. “Anything in particular you were thinking about?”

Credence pulls a face, not sure what part to focus on. He doesn’t want to lie or omit something, so he settles on: “Everything.” Thankfully, Mr. Graves seems to understand; he always does. It’s one of the things Credence is most thankful about.

“A break would do us both good, I think. How about we-“

Mr. Graves is interrupted by a firm knock on his door. Credence feels panic rise even though the really doesn’t have a reason for it. He does his best to fight it down, to relax. Mr. Graves seems less alarmed, but he ignores the door and focuses on Credence intensely.

“That is President Picquery,” he explains, though he doesn’t explain how he knows. Credence figures that he might recognise her power, the same way he recognises Credence – it makes sneaking up on him nearly impossible. “Queenie Goldstein offered to have you over while I sort a couple of things out with her.”

A small sigh of relief escapes Credence. While he is not exactly scared to meet other wizards in general and knows Mr. Graves will protect him, he feels anxious to meet one of the people who ordered his kind-of-execution and who also holds the highest position within the American wizarding community. Spending time with the Goldsteins, while overwhelming at times, seems to be the better alternative. “I’d… like that,” he admits.

“You can use the Floo Network,” Mr. Graves acknowledges it, but Credence can tell he’s not quite done talking yet. “However, if you feel up to it, I would like you to meet the Madame President before you go.”

Credence tenses up again at this request almost immediately. There are so many things that could go wrong – what if she attacks, or tells Mr. Graves to send him to prison, or have him executed, or worse, arrests Mr. Graves, too, for harbouring him –

The young man takes a shaky breath as Mr. Graves pulls him close, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to. But I promise I’ll be there with you the whole time, if you agree.”

And that does it for Credence. A promise. Something Mr. Graves has never broken before. Something he won’t ever break. It will be okay. “I- I can meet her.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves tells him sincerely, as if Credence is actually doing him a favour. “Relax.”

That’s easier said than done, because Credence suddenly realises a more horrible thing than before. He has no idea how to behave around the President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Does he bow? Does he curtsey? How will he address her? Is he even dressed properly? Meetings with politicians had hardly been part of his education from Mary Lou.

“You call her Madame President, and I guarantee she won’t care about what you wear.” Mr. Graves chuckles, the vibrations humming through Credence who still leans into his chest. “A shame, really. You look good. And no, I didn’t read your mind.”

And that doesn’t help at all, none of it does, but Mr. Graves leaves him in the living room to go and open the door and Credence wonders how quickly he can make it to the pot of Floo powder and then the fireplace and away before anyone notices he’s here.

Mr. Graves returns before he can put his speed to the test, though, - not that he really would have done it – and he’s followed by a woman Credence has seen three times now.

She’s dressed casually, Credence supposes. At least she’s not wearing an exuberant, official looking gown like on the picture in Mr. Graves’ bedroom. Her headdress is simple and works well with a shiny violet blouse and dark trousers. Her eyes immediately focus on him, but her face remains neutral.

He tries to meet her gaze as best as he can, and after a few seconds, the hint of a smile ghosts over her face. She holds out a hand. “I’m Seraphina Picquery.”

“C-Credence Barebone,” he tells her and shakes her hand awkwardly. He’s still unsure of what to say, considering she ordered the destruction of the Obscurus – and therefore almost him – merely a week ago.

She keeps holding his gaze and he finds he can’t look away. Like a rabbit in front of a snake.

“You’re the Obscurial,” she observes, raising her hand and silencing Mr. Graves effectively when he tries to intervene.

Credence swallows, willing down his fear. “I… was. Madame President.”

She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You _were_?”

“When you- I mean, when I was…” he takes a deep breath and his eyes flicker to Mr. Graves, who nods encouragingly. “The Obscurus is gone. I’m learning to- to control my magic.”

“How can it be gone?”

“I don’t know. B-but Mr. Scamander has sent me a letter – he thinks he has some theories...” Credence hurries to explain, hating that he doesn’t have a better explanation yet. He himself doesn’t really care – all he cares about is that it’s gone. He doesn’t want it to come back, ever, and if controlling his magic will ensure that, then that’s all he wants to know. But he can see how others might be interested in that sort of knowledge.

The President doesn’t look convinced. “And who will teach you magic? You realise you are too old to attend school.”

This is where Mr. Graves doesn’t keep silent anymore. “I will,” he tells her, almost defiantly.

She sends him a look that speaks of the long suffering of a woman having had hundreds of discussions just like these with Mr. Graves. It’s loving, but unnerved. The two have a stare-off for a short while, before the President shakes her head and turns back to Credence.

“It seems I owe you an apology,” she says, completely surprising him. “And even though I honestly didn’t expect to see you again you are part of the wizarding community, so it is both my duty and pleasure to welcome you in our middle.”

“Thank you,” Credence mutters, too surprised to say anything else.

“Don’t understand me wrong,” she continues, “your case is unprecedented, there will be an investigation and possibly a court hearing. Not to mention the clean-up of the Grindelwald mess that you are also part of.”

“Yes, Madame President.”

She seems content. “Good. You’re excused.”

Credence doesn’t even question her authority in Mr. Graves’ flat. While she wanders off to the kitchen, he takes the pot of Floo powder Mr. Graves offers him and steps in front of the fireplace.

“You did so well, Credence,” Mr. Graves tells him and rubs the nape of Credence’s neck comfortingly. “I’ll pick you up later.”

Credence nods before taking a handful of the loose powder and tossing it into the flames. He watches how they turn bright green before stepping into them resolutely. It’s the third time he does it and the novelty of stepping into fire has not worn of yet. “679 West 24th Street, New York, Goldstein Apartment,” he says as clearly as he can and then the flames engulf him.

Queenie turns when he stumbles out of their mantelpiece and holds out a mug with a smile. “Tea?”

oOo

“Percy, what in the name of Merlin’s woollen cap do you think you’re doing?” Seraphina stabs her spoon into her cup of coffee as if she’s trying to eradicate hundreds of tiny Percival Graveses swimming in it. “I was this close to apologising to you!”

“For not realising a madman switches places with me for an entire week, resulting in the death sentence of one of your most capable young Aurors and a Magizoologist I haven’t even met yet but hear _wild_ stories about?” Percival leans back in his chair and easily holds Seraphina’s gaze.

She huffs. “At least he got results.”

It’s a low blow, and Percival crosses his arms to signal her just that. “The result being an Obscurial you and my Aurors tried to kill.”

He’s taken it too far now, too. Seraphina shoots up from her chair and plants her hands on the table, leaning in close. “The whole wizarding world was _this_ close to exposure. We were at risk of an open war with the No-Majs and you know we don’t stand a chance if they are scared and rallying! So don’t you dare imply I did anything less but my duties to my best judgment and abilities,” she hisses, then shakes her head and straightens her back, turning away from him. “The last time I checked, our safety, wellbeing and the necessary segregation between our world and that of the No-Majs was your first priority, too.”

Percival gets up, too, and walks around the table slowly, his hands in his pockets. He comes to a halt next to Seraphina and they both look out of the kitchen window onto the icy roofs of New York City. For a while, neither of them speaks.

“I want to apologise for letting it come to this,” he finally tells her quietly.

She chuckles joylessly. “Did you at least give Grindelwald hell?”

He gives her a grim smile. “What do you think?”

Seraphina takes a deep breath before turning her head to look at him. “I think that I’m very glad you’re alive. Even though you invoke quite un-presidential feelings in me.”

Percival somehow is certain she isn’t talking about romantic ones.

“So, what is it with Mr. Barebone?” Seraphina changes the topic before either of them can hug or jinx each other.

“He’s... special,” Percival settles on, treading carefully.

Seraphina is perceptive. It’s one of the many qualities he values in her. “More than in the sense of being the only wizard alive having survived an Obscurus, according to Mr. Scamander? Who, by the way, seems to be informed about this for far longer than I have?” She clucks her tongue in annoyance. “I shouldn’t have let him go that quickly.”

“Credence has the potential for great power. As you said, he’s too old to attend school. So, with your permission, I am going to teach him.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re going to do it whether I agree or not?”

Percival steels himself. “Because that’s exactly what I am going to do. Agree, and everything will return to normalcy. Disagree, and you will lose your best Auror and, coincidentally, your Director of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Seraphina stays silent for so long Percival actually starts to worry – not that he shows it, though. Finally, she observes: “I would also lose a _friend_.”

He acknowledges her silently. She knows the feeling is mutual, but their relationship is not made up from long mushy talks. He clears his throat. “Tina calls me your _sidekick_ , you know? Only to her sister, of course. They think I don’t know.”

The president’s lips curl up in amusement. “I like that.”

Percival nods. “I thought you might. Gigglewater?”

“Brother Huey’s, double,” Seraphina disagrees and summons shot glasses.

oOo

**Christmas Day 1926**

“A little bit to the left. The other left. Now up. Okay, tie it there.”

Mr. Graves steps out of the fireplace with a whoosh and startles both Queenie and Credence. Unfortunately for the young man, he is currently balancing on top of a chair, trying to secure the slightly wobbly Christmas tree with some string and a hook in the ceiling. He falls backwards before he even realises what’s happening, but thankfully Mr. Graves reacts instantly.

Credence finds his fall coming to an abrupt halt mid-air and then Mr. Graves’ bigger hands support his back while Queenie hurriedly takes one of his arms. Together, they guide him out of the levitation and back on solid ground.

“H-hello,” he greets Mr. Graves, blushing furiously.

“Mr. Graves, you do sweep him off his feet,” Queenie teases and takes the Aurors coat, directing it to hang itself up by the door with her wand.

Mr. Graves doesn’t comment on that, but squeezes Credence’s hand for a moment, searching his face to see if he’s alright. Credence gives him a small smile.

“I assume there is a reason for why Credence was up on that chair?” the Auror inquires instead and nods thankfully at Queenie, who passes him a cup of steaming hot mulled wine.

“It’s not ridiculous, darling,” Queenie whispers to Credence, who once again realises the mental barrier he’s supposed to be training is basically non-existent.

He takes a breath. “It’s just that… Christmas is a religious holiday. We never really celebrated with presents or a tree or anything, but I think it’d be nice to decorate it like other… No-Majs-“ he still stumbles over the word that would have been used to describe him until not too long ago, “It feels more… real that way.”

As per usual with his explanations, he’s not entirely happy with how it came out, but he trusts Mr. Graves to understand.

Another reason except for the slightly blasphemous feeling he has when he uses witchcraft to do things that celebrate an occurrence based on decidedly non-magical, Christian believes is the fact that his magic is by far not good enough to help with decorating. It’s the same when he tries to help with cooking or cleaning – he still needs to do it by hand, not trained in the various household spells yet. Also, he enjoys working with his hands. It gives him the feeling of being useful, of paying back some of the kindness and friendship he’s experienced for the past weeks.

Mr. Graves nods, showing that he does indeed understand what Credence clumsily tries to voice. He sits down at the table, stretching his legs and watches contently how Credence picks up some ornaments. Queenie pushes a cutting board with carrots and a knife over to him and Credence watches amusedly how Mr. Graves makes a face when the Legilimens turns back to the stove.

“I can’t hear you mincing, Mr. Graves,” Queenie chides good-naturedly over her shoulder and now Credence has to hide his face in fir branches to hide his grin.

“Now I understand why Tina offered to finish up the paperwork on my desk,” the Auror mutters, but flicks his wand lazily and watches satisfied how the knife sets to work. Credence and Queenie exchange amused glances, neither of them pointing out he’s cheating by using magic.

“Did you visit your mother’s grave?” Mr. Graves then asks and Credence can feel his eyes resting on him while he carefully hangs bauble after bauble.

“Yes. I think Modesty was there before me. There was a small wreath…” He tries not to sound as sad as he is. He truly is grateful that the MACUSA intervened when it came to her. She was obliviated of course, and now lives with a nice elderly couple. They told her that Credence disappeared after their foster mother’s death.

He and Chastity are both old enough to live by themselves, and Chastity is currently recovering in hospital, having been obliviated, too. Credence is glad she survived and wept when Mr. Graves brought him the news, not wanting another death on his hands; yet he sees the necessity in both of his sisters thinking he has just disappeared.

“We went for a walk afterwards,” Queenie gently changes the topic, picking up on the tang of sadness to Credence’s thoughts easily. “And had a look around the city for jobs.”

Mr. Graves sips his mulled wine and hums an acknowledgement. “So I can’t convince you to take a break for a while?”

Credence smiles and shakes his head while carefully straightening out tinsel. “I- I want to be able to earn my keep. You’ve all been… so nice.” Nice isn’t even the beginning of it, not really. But Queenie and Mr. Graves know what he means. Whenever they return to the apartment in the evening, he can’t help but feel guilty for just moving into someone else’s life so to speak. He eats Mr. Graves – and, to be honest, more often than not the Goldstein sisters’ – food, sleeps in his bed, wears clothes that have been magically sawn or altered by Queenie and practices magic with a wand that isn’t his. True enough, he doesn’t really know where he would even get his own, but that’s not the point.

“Oh darling, it’s nothing!” Queenie tells him and when he holds out two baubles for her to choose from, points to the pink one. “It’s been our pleasure, really!” Credence nods gratefully, more because of the words than because of the decoration advice and moves to put them on the tree. Behind him, Queenie collects the carrots.

Mr. Graves seems to have counted on being able to sit back, but Queenie is having none of that. “Mr. Graves, would you please make sure the candles have a protection spell around them? I don’t want to Aguamenti the flat if something catches fire.”

He doesn’t grumble – Credence assumes that’s beneath his dignity – but when he steps close to Credence, he seems much more interested in watching the boy decorate than to do any real work by himself.

“What job were you thinking of?” he asks, and Credence concentrates very hard on the feeling of fir needles in his hands, aware that Mr. Graves this close does things to him he wants to spare Queenie the thought about. And himself the embarrassment of having her see it.

“There’s a, uhm, bakery on Rivington Street. They’re looking for help.” Credence tenses a bit, not sure how Mr. Graves will react to that.

“A bakery?” the Auror asks in surprise, but not unkindly so. He reaches around Credence, his chest pressed into the young man’s back, and selects a silver ornament.

“I like working with my hands,” Credence explains carefully. Also, there is something about the owner, Mr. Kowalski, that he liked from the moment he saw him. Like Queenie, he doesn’t seem to have one bad bone in his body. And he doesn’t care that Credence has no real experience within the bread-making business.

Mr. Graves now places one hand on Credence’s shoulder, rubbing at the tension that is still stuck in the muscles, no matter how safe the environment is. Credence swallows down a languorous hum. “I can see you working there,” Mr. Graves tells him, to Credence’s surprise.

“I- I thought maybe you wouldn’t like it,” he admits, leaning back into the touch. It’s easy to forget they’re in the same room as Queenie, who is currently busy with her pots and pans, when Mr. Graves is this close, focuses his full attention on him.

“Just because I know you have the talent to become a great wizard doesn’t mean I want to throw you in the heat of battle without your own wand or at least a couple of more spells,” Mr. Graves explains. Then, he grins, only for Credence to see. “As well as you do it, the likes of Grindelwald wouldn’t be very impressed if you float an inkpot into their faces.” He keeps rubbing circles with his thumb to take the sting out of his words.

Credence grins back shyly, not exactly used to an expression like that. “Maybe one of your paperweights, though?”

“I see I taught you well, my boy.”

oOo

Tina arrives just when dinner is done, red-cheeked and giddier than Percival or Credence have ever seen her. It turns out that Newt Scamander, who Percival has yet the pleasure to actually meet in person, will return to New York in two days’ time.

Somehow, he thinks that that is all Tina seems to have wished for.

Both Percival and Credence are unused to having a big dinner on Christmas Eve; Percival having burrowed himself in work for the past years mainly because he didn’t really have anyone to celebrate with and a visit to his family could be arranged any day of the year. Sometimes he went for a drink with Seraphina, but that was the most festive it ever got.

Credence’s Christmas celebration could be boiled down to a church visit and the unpleasant company of his mother while they handed out food to the homeless kids. While Credence has excused himself earlier that day to join a morning Mass, he seems to cautiously embrace spending the day with leisure activities with Queenie and a big dinner with the few people he knows.

Percival mostly enjoys watching Credence comfortable, almost at ease with the two women that help with his education and that Percival considers friends – even though Queenie mostly sticks to her teasing ‘Mr. Graves’ even in the privacy of her own home. The sisters’ invitation had been unexpected, but welcome.

Dinner is delicious and even though they all eat until they’re close to bursting, there are quite a lot of leftovers. Tina decides to take them to the area of the now destroyed NSPS church the next day to try and hand them out to the kids there, earning a grateful smile from Credence.

They enjoy conversation and eggnog after dinner, Percival and Tina willingly sharing some of the more interesting cases they solved at work, while Queenie teaches Credence how to play Exploding Snap. It doesn’t help that both he and Queenie are too much of light-weights to deal with the intricacies of the card game _and_ the eggnog simultaneously.

Percival sneakily intervenes whenever Credence is on the losing side, and when Tina notices, she starts supporting her sister, just about equally as covert as the older man is. Eventually, the cards seem to have had enough and when they shuffle themselves for a new round they all explode at one, leaving the four people at the table slightly stunned for a second.

The Auror then decides this is the moment to say their good-byes and hides his amusement at how Credence leans into him just a little too heavily, warm and tipsy and carefree. Queenie hugs Credence carefully, and the boy moves away from Percival just long enough to reciprocate the gesture before he’s back, the curve of his body a perfect fit to the older man’s side.

“Merry Christmas, Percival,” Tina tells him, smiling sincerely.

He smiles back, his arm wrapped around Credence’s waist, and for once he doesn’t mind showing his softer side. He realises he has to, sometimes, with his friends – because they deserve it. To make sure they never doubt his loyalties, like it happened with Grindelwald. “Merry Christmas, Tina.”

Then Percival straightens his back and pulls Credence a little closer. The young man stops him before they can disapparate, though. “Can I do it?”

Credence has a natural talent for apparition, probably fuelled by the Obscurus before, and after only some minor assistance from Percival, he managed to control this usually more advanced piece of magic easily. His focus and determination are steely once he gets a hold of his emotions. Normally, however, Percival is the one to take them to places together. Tonight, it seems Credence feels confident.

“Of course,” Percival tells him. He still focuses his mind on where they need to go, in a way supporting the less experienced wizard, but Credence handles it flawlessly and they disapparate without trouble.

oOo

Percival has modified the wards of his apartment after the first time he brought Credence there, so the young wizard has no difficulties apparating them right into their bedroom.

The Auror knows Credence still hesitates to call it their apartment, or their bedroom, but the truth is that even though Percival furnished it years ago, it has become their joint home in the shortest amount of time. It smells like Credence in every room, and the flat feels lived in. Percival has to admit that coming home from work and knowing there is someone there waiting for him is pleasant.

“Are you okay?” Credence asks, running his eyes over Percival’s body questioningly. Percival watches with interest how Credence bites his lower lip when he does that, equally worried about Percival’s well-being and at the same time clearly enjoying what he sees.

“No Splinching. You did well, my boy,” he praises and runs his thumb over Credence’s cheek. He remembers the cut there vividly.

Credence smiles at him, his cheeks faintly red from joy and eggnog. Then, he asks: “Could I please borrow your wand?”

Percival raises an eyebrow, but still smiles, and slides his wand from his sleeve. Credence’s fingers touch his when he reaches for it and then he mutters “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ” under his breath, pointing the wand at his own trouser pocket.

Something small and green floats out of it and Credence directs it above their heads, following it with his eyes narrowed in concentration. Only when it floats on the spot he returns to look at Percival, fixing him with a broad smile.

Percival makes a step forward and closes the short distance between the two of them, smirking. “ A mistletoe? Is there something you are trying to tell me?”

Now Credence smirks, too, and Percival marks it down to his tipsiness – not that he doesn’t enjoy it, though. “Not exactly trying to tell you. Trying to _do_.”  He leans in, then, and presses a kiss against Percival’s lips.

Percival doesn’t hesitate. He kisses back hungrily, fuelled by the sudden confidence and slight cheek in his Credence. The boy is still responsive as ever and practically melts into Percival, losing focus on the spell over their heads. Percival floats the mistletoe and his own wand to the side before wrapping his arms around the younger man, pulling him flush against himself.

It’s been too long for both men since they have last done this, although Percival realises that the time they needed to heal physically and mentally had been necessary. Right now though all he can think of is the warm body in his arms, the beautiful young man who doesn’t care how proud or how battle-scarred he is. Who gives himself to Percival so wholly, who trusts him without question. Who wants him, and in turn makes Percival want him with just a simple look, a quiet word, one touch.

Percival feels his body respond to the kiss, feels set on fire when Credence licks at his lips. He is burning with desire, groaning when his hardening cock presses against Credence’s growing erection.

“So how is your plan working out?” Percival asks against Credence’s lips before he presses their foreheads together, breathing in his lover’s scent. Soap, magic and something that has to be fir needles from the Christmas tree.

And Credence, who surprises Percival again and again, runs his long fingers over the prominent bulge in the older man’s trousers and whispers: “Seems to be working fine.”

Percival narrows his eyes, a dangerous glint in them. “When did you get so cheeky?”

Credence blinks, long eyelashes fluttering innocently. “Should I stop?”

Percival bites him in response, worrying the full bottom lip of his young lover between his teeth and eliciting a loud gasp.

Almost instantly, Credence presses his whole body flush against Percival, the need to be closer, to feel _more_ overwhelming as always. Percival hums in satisfaction and rolls his hips, relishing the feeling of Credence’s cock against his.

oOo

While a small part of his Credence’s brain is still marvelling at the matter of course way Percival Graves his kissing him, touching him like he is desirable, beautiful even, the bigger part by far is a hot mess of want and need as Percival palms Credence’s leaking cock through his trousers.

He doesn’t know what to say, or do, too blissed out by how he feels. So he just whimpers, and it’s amazing how different that sound can be when it’s full of want, not agony and desperation. Well, desperation of a different kind, anyway.

Credence digs his fingers into the fabric of Percival’s waistcoat and wishes he could vanish everything like the older man can. That won’t happen anytime soon, though, so he angles his body back just enough so his hands fit in between them. He kisses Percival hungrily, licking and tasting at the Aurors mouth, not able to get enough, while his fingers fight with the buttons of the waistcoat and soon after the shirt underneath.

The shirt falls open on Percival’s chest, the few lowest buttons still closed when Credence gets a proper look for the first time since he crashed into the Auror’s flat – and the man that was tied up on the floor – weeks ago. Of course he knows the curse marks are still there, Percival has told him about his visits with the medi-witches and -wizards, but now is the first time he sees them properly, Percival having forgone wearing an undershirt.

A new feeling rises in Credence, one he hasn’t known before. Possessiveness. He presses his forehead against Percival’s and looks down to where his hands are tracing the marks on the older man’s body.

“What are you thinking about?” Percival asks quietly, rubbing Credence’s bare arms where goose bumps have broken out.

“That I’m… proud to be with you.” He pauses and tries to find the right words. “And proud that you’ve chosen me to be your- your-“ He huffs and presses the palm of his left hand over Percival’s heart.

“My student?” Percival chuckles and presses one finger under Credence’s chin gently, lifting his head. “Lover?” The older man kisses him deeply, uses his free arm to pull Credence close again so their hammering heartbeats thrum against each other’s chests. “Or everything?” Percival whispers, in a reference to their first kiss in May, as Credence realises immediately.

“Yes,” he breathes, and wants to say something else, something he knows only from the books he’s read. But it’s the ultimate thing to say, the one thing laying a person barer than being naked ever could. It’s a baring of the heart and soul.

 Percival smiles, a precious thing meant only ever for Credence’s eyes too. “My boy, there is no-one else out there who could ever reach me like you do. Who is as strong, or beautiful.” The Auror smirks and lets both his hands fall to Credence’s waist, where the shirt has come lose from the trousers and reveals skin where Percival pushes it up. “Who blushes as wonderfully.”

Credence, of course, grows pink in the face. “Why do you like it when I blush?”

“Because when you do, you usually try to make up for it,” Percival explains and touches Credence’s hands that are currently busying themselves with the buttoned fly of the older man’s trousers. “Your boldness is extraordinary,” he adds huskily, as Credence works his way down.

For a second, what Percival describes as ‘boldness’ threatens to make Credence drop to his knees, to be on eyelevel with Percival’s hard cock. Credence is not entirely sure how he would go about what he wants to, but if Percival has proven one thing then it’s that he doesn’t mind teaching Credence anything he wants to know.

For now, though, Credence simply snakes one hand into his lover’s trousers and wraps his fingers around the hard length. Percival shameless pushes into the touches, his voice gravelly as he pays Credence compliment after compliment. It only spurs the young man in his effort and soon enough Percival runs shaking fingers through the soft black hair that Credence is currently growing out a bit, and presses a kiss against his temple, whispering “stop.”

Credence does as he’s asked and watches how Percival quickly strips out of his clothes. The young man follows suit and is barely done when Percival is up close again, pushing him backwards until his legs touch the bed. They fall down, entangled in each other at first.

Then, however, Credence rolls onto his back and lets his legs fall open, this time feeling only the tips of his ears heat up a bit. It’s hard to be uncomfortable or insecure when the man he loves so much looks at him like he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen in his life.

The man he- _oh._

“Credence?” Percival searches his face, the want from before, when he realised Credence was spreading out for him still clear in his eyes. It’s slowly being replaced by worry, seeing as Credence has gone very still at the realisation of what exactly he is feeling.

Now, it seems obvious. This is love. Unconditional love, pure and simple. Credence couldn’t have known before, can’t even be sure now – but deep inside, he feels this is right. He loves Percival Graves more than he has ever loved someone before, more than he ever will. It’s what he wanted to say before, what he read about in books. Grand, romantic words in an even grander setting.

“I want to… I need to tell you that-“ Credence starts but it’s wrong. “I don’t know how to-“ he begins again, but this time Percival kisses him mid-sentence and wipes a tear from Credence’s cheek the young man hadn’t even realised was there.

“I understand,” Percival says, and means it. Credence smiles when he realises it’s the older man’s pride keeping him from admitting he doesn’t know how to say it, either. But they don’t have to, neither of them. They’ve gone through hell, both of them, at times together.

Then all coherent thought leaves Credence, because Percival begins to prepare him, spreads him, massages and works him open until Credence rears up and thrashes around in pleasure with every slide of his fingers. Yet Percival is relentless, and does everything short from touching Credence’s cock to drive the young wizard mad with lust. “Next time, I want your cock inside me. I’ll ride you, my boy, show you how good you are, how good you make me feel.”

And oh, this paints a thousand pictures in Credence’s mind. He moves trembling hands towards his cock, desperate to grant himself the tiny shove over the edge he needs so much, but Percival swats his hands away easily, tutting amusedly.

“Please,” Credence begs, dimly remembering that the older man seemed to enjoy him begging in the bedroom before, “please, Percival, I- I want you!”

It serves its intended purpose beautifully. Percival growls low in his throat and grabs Credence by the back of his neck firmly. For a second, Credence imagines a hand around his throat, pressing carefully, lovingly, and he shivers in pleasure. There is no way he can ask for that now – or possibly ever – but maybe, in the future… He’s distracted once more when Percival bites a mark beneath Credence’s clavicle and Credence relishes the slight pain.

Then Percival lets his fingers slide out of Credence’s ass and shifts his body, aligning himself with his young lover. The anticipation is tangible between the two of them, both yearning for much needed release and yet trying to draw out the tension more and more.

“W-wait,” Credence mutters, trying to focus his own hazy gaze on Percival’s lust-blown eyes. The older man furrows his eyebrows, but when Credence gently nudges him so he rolls over and they can switch positions, a satisfied smirk blooms on his face.

“Steady,” he mutters as Credence kneels over him, a looming pale figure in the dim light of the bedside lamps.

For a second, Credence hesitates – it’s only the second time for him to do any of this, and he was on his back the first time. But Percival knows this, doesn’t care, and instead gently guides him into the right position, shows him with presses of fingertips against hips and legs what he has to do.

Everything else comes naturally then, and Credence’s eyes widen in pleasure when he lowers himself fully on Percival’s cock. Percival himself is panting heavily and pushes his upper body up until he can wrap his arms around Credence’s lower back.

Credence then lifts himself up experimentally, supported by Percival’s arms, before sinking down again and while Percival at least manages to hiss a low “fuck”, Credence is reduced to a basic groan. Then he repeats the move, angling his hips the slightest bit and hitting that spot inside himself that made him see stars the first time Percival touched it.

“Perfect, Credence. Just like that,” Percival praises him, breath hot on Credence’s chest. The Auror is supporting himself with one arm on the mattress now so he can stay sitting upright with Credence straddling his lap. His other hand rests on Credence’s ass, grabbing it possessively, tightly, sure to leave a bruise.

Eager to please, to make his lover happy, Credence begins moving earnestly, developing a rhythm that soon leaves both of them a panting, grunting mess. Percival meets his thrusts as best as he can, the position they’re in is not perfect for that. Neither of them wants to change it, though, not when Credence can feel his cock sliding between their joined bodies, not when Percival bites at his chest, leaving marks all over. Not when Credence can bury a hand in Percival’s hair, dip his head backwards and steal messy kisses while the rhythm he set before grows more erratic with every touch, every slide of Percival’s cock inside him.

Credence learns to take what he wants, to take kisses, touches. He takes them carefully, demanding only as much as his lover is willing to give, always testing out how far he can go. But Percival is so willing, so open to him. Lets him experiment. Lets him taste and touch.

The young wizard moves faster, harder now, and just when Percival’s hand tightens on his ass, just when he growls Credence’s name like a wild animal, Credence comes. He is vaguely aware of how Percival bucks under him, too, how his body goes tight and then slumps down as the orgasm washes over him.

oOo

“I have a small surprise for you,” Percival says, and Credence focuses on him almost immediately, face open and curious. “In a way, it’s a Christmas present. From Queenie, Tina and me. And a little help from President Picquery.”

Percival is propped up against two pillows, one hand behind his head. The other one rests on Credence’s naked hip, stroking absentmindedly. Credence is curled up against his side, his head resting on Percival’s chest and one leg hooked around Percival’s thighs. Now he lifts his head curiously.

“I’ve been in contact with the North American wand makers. We have appointments with two of them next week – Johannes Jonker, who mostly supplies Ilvermorny, and Violetta Beauvais in Louisiana.”

Credence’s eyes widen. “You mean… I will get to choose my wand?”

“It will choose you, if the lore is to be trusted,” Percival corrects him and smiles, “but yes. You will get your own wand.”

The younger man looks like he’s about to cry, but then he shakes his head resolutely and leans up to kiss Percival, hard, pouring his gratefulness into the gesture. “Thank you,” he mutters against Percival’s lips. Then he nuzzles the Auror’s face and hugs him tightly.

They both need the contact now and Percival enjoys it, content with being unapproachable to the rest of the world. Never to Credence, though.

“I am going to need a wand permit,” Credence then wonders loudly and Percival can’t help but laugh, joined by his young lover.

“We’ll ask Tina. You can be her first and only applicant.”

Credence cocks his head. “If I don’t get a permit, will the Director of Magical Law Enforcement take steps against me?”

The playfulness is new, and rare. And Percival suspects he won’t see it every day. But it’s a new, different side to Credence, one he enjoys indulging. Credence is so young, so full of life and joy when he is given the chance to just _be_.

“I’m sure a smart wizard like you can arrange a deal of some sorts.”

“I- have something in mind,” Credence admits, cheeks tinting pink when he stutters slightly in hesitation. Percival isn’t sure what exactly his young lover is talking about, but then Credence unhooks his leg and gently nudges Percival’s legs apart so he can kneel in-between them.

With one last nervous look into Percival’s eyes, Credence lowers his head and Percival stops thinking altogether.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. Thank you so much everyone for your kind words of support, your comments and most of all FOR READING.
> 
> You can always come and talk to me on my tumblr - hanna-notmontana - and descend into shipper hell with me. Even if I'm not very active, I do my best to reply to messages :D  
> Lots of love, Hanna


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